World of Whatcraft
by Umodin
Summary: Life is a funny thing. Sometimes it does right by you, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it throws you such a ridiculous curve ball that you wake up as a baby Legolas look-alike in a place where people don't speak English. In case you haven't figured it out, in my case it's the latter. OC-Self Insert
1. Prologue

At first, I could not understand what was going on.

In those first few weeks and months, or however long it truly was, the world was nothing more than a confusing blend of colors and noise to me. My mind refused to function properly, as if I were in a fevered dream, and the few thoughts I could form were nothing but a jumbled mess that followed neither rhyme nor reason.

Not that it would have done much good had I been able to think properly, I quickly learned. I couldn't stay awake long enough for it to matter in any case. Consciousness was a fleeting thing, coming and going like the tide. Sometimes, I would feel myself rousing, my mind on the brink of truly waking up, only to fade back into a slumbered embrace before I could comprehend anything. A perpetual cycle of nothingness and barely being there.

Then one day I simply woke up, and nothing made sense any more.

Above me stood four gigantic, beautiful figures, talking in hushed tones in a language I did not know. Two of them had blue eyes, one had green and one had purple, and three had blonde hair of different shades, one had silver. All of them held lithe figures, all of them had curves that any woman would kill for, and all of them had a pair of pointed, knife-like ears.

As strange as it was, they looked just like a race I remembered well. A race from games and film, from the minds of men and women all the same. Created, not born, and existing only for entertainment and imagination.

 _Elves_.

I tried to move, tried to escape from these strange beings. My body did not listen, only my head moved, lolling to the left. I could not move it further. I could feel my ears, longer and sturdier than ever before, flapping against soft silk sheets, and I saw a strand of silver from atop my head. I went ramrod straight in confusion; my hair had always been brown. Looking around the room in more detail, I saw that I was surrounded by white wooden bars. At first, I presumed I was in a cage of some sort, a toy for these giant elves to play with, a lucid dream that started as a nightmare. I soon found out that this was not to be the case.

Across from me, just in my field of vision, I could make out the silhouette of another, smaller giant. It was a pudgy looking thing, with pale pink skin, pointed ears and a great tuft of golden hair. It was asleep, soft inhales and exhales of breath were escaping its mouth. On either of its sides, those same white wooden bars were in place. It took a moment longer than I would like to admit to discern what those bars represented, but I did learn quickly enough.

I was in a crib.

Cribs were not meant for men, they were meant for babies, like that giant one across from me. It was the same size as I was!

Babies did not grow to be nearly six feet tall. Not even the babies of gigantic elven women, at least I hoped they didn't. From that, I could infer, however crazy it sounded (and _damn_ did it sound crazy), that I was now a baby.

For a while, I just laid there, staring at the bars of the crib and the other baby, ignoring the elven women as they smiled and cooed. I did not care, I needed to collect my thoughts. Even when they left, turning an overhead light off and keeping the door cracked open, I did not move.

I couldn't bother with the pretense that this was nothing but a dream; it looked and felt far too real for it to be that. I had always prided myself on being a logical person, even under heavy pressure, and so did not try to deny the reality that this was. No matter how ridiculous and fantastical this was.

I had been reincarnated. Not only had I been reincarnated, it was in a new world at that. Elves only appeared in fiction and fantasy, and so that was where I assumed I was brought to.

It was unusually easy for me to accept this fact and move on, I later noticed.

Perhaps my ease of acceptance was due to my remembering all too clearly how I died in my first life. It was rather difficult to forget being murdered by your girlfriend after all. The shock and pain of that betrayal was still quite fresh in my mind. What was reincarnation when compared to that? Nothing, that's what.

So, as I lay there, the inevitable question of _what should I do now?_ came up.

I had already done all that was expected in my first life. I grew up, went to school, got a job, got married, had a kid, had a divorce and then died. It was undeniable that it ended badly, which meant I would strive for a better ending in this second chance at life. To not do so would be an affront to far too many.

Wherever I was, I would do all I could to be great. A great servant, a great leader, a great craftsman… perhaps even a great mage if this world I was born into was as fantastical as its elven denizens. I would not be average, not again, _never_ again.

I then felt my eyelids grow heavy, and could not keep them open. My infant body once again did not respond to the desires of my mind, and so I could not stay awake. I drifted once more into a fast dream.

This time, as I slept, I dreamt of what could be, instead of what once was.

. . .

Months blurred quickly, and I finally learned my new name.

Tharama.

A curious name; I hadn't ever heard anything like it before, not in my first life at least. I found myself taking pride in its originality, a sign that I would be like no other. My new twin brother had a similarly unique name; Lirath. We were bound to be different, him and I.

Then I learned my surname.

 _Windrunner._

In my first life, I had put nearly a decade's worth of time into the game World of Warcraft. Its land and lore, the people that played and the people that were made… I loved all of it. It was a game in which I cultivated friends, formed relationships that lasted the whole of my life, and was introduced to different peoples and cultures that expanded my understanding of Earth and humanity as a whole.

Windrunner was a name that anybody that played Warcraft knew. Sylvanas Windrunner was the Queen of the Forsaken and one of the leaders of the Horde. Vereesa Windrunner was the leader of the Silver Covenant and widow of Rhonin Redhair, the former leader of the Kirin Tor. And Alleria Windrunner was one of the most speculated characters in the game; the lover of Turalyon and mother of the half-elf paladin, Arator the Redeemer.

Windrunner was a name that was synonymous with respect in Warcraft.

And now, I was to bear this name.

At first, I was absolutely delighted. To be a member of the Windrunner family and experience my most beloved franchise in the flesh sounded wondrous. Then, as I contemplated what being a Windrunner would entail, I promptly lost my lunch. My new mother had thought I came down with something when the truth was that I realized that this wasn't going to be wondrous at all; it was going to be a living hell.

The game was called the World of _War_ craft for a damn good reason. War was far more common than peace. Be they supernatural threats, political or territorial struggles there was no end to the carnage that was in this world I now called home. It was one thing to look at it through a computer screen, laughing and raging with friends and strangers over skype calls as I traversed Azeroth. It was another thing entirely when this was to be my _life_.

My goal became clear upon that revelation. Greatness was not the only thing I could strive for. I needed to be strong, stronger than most, strong enough to be put in a league all my own. As strong as the heroes of this world, peoples like the Stormrage brothers, Thrall, Varian, Khadgar and even my newfound sister Sylvanas. Strength was synonymous with freedom, and it meant that I would be able to do as I pleased whenever I liked.

To be as strong as them was a goal, but there was absolutely no way I would follow their example. Thrall was raised a slave. Varian Wrynn was forced to be a pit fighter. Khadgar was magically aged by well over half a century. My sister became an unfeeling banshee that lost any semblance of self after the death of the Lich King. Malfurion Stormrage was forcefully induced into a deep sleep for thousands of years at a time.

All of these peoples were heroes, and all of these peoples had miserable pasts and existences.

Aside from that, I just refused to be a hero. Were I still a child, mentally at least, I probably would have wanted to become something like that. Going on adventures and saving people, all the while earning the adoration of my fellows sounded like a smashing idea.

 _Idea_ being the key word. I knew better than to walk that path. Heroes were not real. They were nothing but myths, stories that people told their children to make the world they lived in seem a better place. The few heroes that might have existed never lived out happy lives; all that awaited them was pain and betrayal. I had died in pain and betrayal and I was most assuredly not a hero, I would not allow myself a similar end.

No, in order to guarantee that I reach the strength I craved, I couldn't follow the path that the heroes of Warcraft paved. No, I would gain my strength in the same manner that the _villains_ of the series gained their own power. Arthas had Frostmourne, Illidan had the Skull of Gul'dan, Gul'dan had the Burning Legion, Azshara had the Well of Eternity, Deathwing had N'zoth... There were so many more enemies of Warcraft, all who obtained power through similar means.

I didn't entertain the notion of using any of the powers I just listed, mind you. They either no longer existed or would lead to madness and death, and brought far more pain than they were worth. But these villains, they all had one thing in common; they received their powers from a source that was beyond them, their power was something that they did not naturally possess. Regardless as to whether it was a power that was gifted or stolen, these villains became as powerful as they were through means that were not their own.

As it turned out, Azeroth was the home of a plethora artifacts and fonts of power that were ripe for the taking. Artifacts and fonts of power that I just so happened to know the locations of; the entire expansion of Legion was based around artefacts, after all. It was better, in my professional opinion, that they go to a worthy cause. Better that I take these powers than it would be for somebody to misuse them. I could almost guarantee that I wouldn't misuse these artifacts. In fact, I would use them quite well.

Now I just had to figure out how I would get to that point. I already had the Why, now all I needed was the rest. Where would I go? Who would I go to? When would I leave? What artifacts would I claim?

How the hell was I going to pull any of that off?

…

…

…

I would determine that at a later date. At this moment, I felt the need to scream bloody murder.

I just shit my diaper.

 _Fuck being a baby!_

 **. . .**

 **A/N So, here's another rendition of Whatcraft, the third and hopefully final one. The first-person perspectives are fun to write, but I was doing this story a disservice the way I was writing it. Warcraft is a dark and bloody universe when you look past its cartoonish animations, and to treat it as a silly adventure ficlet really doesn't do it justice. The animations from the game might be cartoonish, but there are some very heavy plots going on in this universe, and to treat it like I treat my Pokémon story just felt wrong. So, while this is still going to be a first-person perspective story, it will be quite a bit different to what you might be expecting.**

 **Luckily, I have had this story on my mind for a while. I actually have a plan for once, which means that I'll hopefully be able to move quicker with my writing.**

 **Tharama has a goal now. Before, he just was enjoying life. While that in itself is not a bad thing, a story needs a plot, and my favorite plots are based around main characters with heavy goals, struggling desperately to achieve them. If you know Warcraft, you know that most of the villains don't start off as the bad guys. They are good guys or at least people with good intentions, and then pave a path that leads to ruin. Arthas and Illidan and Deathwing come to mind, even Garrosh.**

 **Whether Tharama goes down this path, well I don't know yet. But that's the fun part of Warcraft and in writing, anything can go.**

 **If you liked this, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review.**


	2. A Popped Bubble

"What does this one mean?" I asked, pointing a chubby finger down at a character I had never seen before.

My minder, an elven woman named Cailyn, looked down with her teal colored eyes. Her crimson hair cascaded as she craned her neck, and she offered me a wan smile.

"That one means cloud," she slowly said, annunciating her words as clearly and carefully as she could.

"So, when you put that character with this one, it says ' _the sun was countered by a cloud?_ '"

"Close, very close! It actually says ' _the sun was covered by a cloud.'_ Covered, not countered. Here, look. This is the character for covered and this is the character for countered."

"Ohh…"

It has been over three years since my goal had been made. Over three years for me to plan and prepare, and I was nowhere near having an idea on what in the hell I was going to do. In the long run, at least.

With the understanding that I didn't really have a plan yet and that I probably wasn't going to have one for another good few years, I decided to start with the small things. I couldn't research anything without the ability to read, and I could not search for power without knowing how to run. Nobody could run without first learning to walk, and so that is what I started with.

It was a simple thing to learn since I already knew how to do it from my first life, though building the balance to run took an embarrassing year to gain. Even still I would fall on occasion. Luckily, I was ahead of the curve all the same, so nobody made fun of my stumbles. I knew that for a human toddler my progress was quite fast and I later learned that for an elf it was apparently astounding. Elves were long lived peoples, and they developed slowly in turn. Elven toddlers would normally learn to walk around the age of eighteen months old, so for me to be three and a half years old and already learning to read was just plain weird. Not that I cared, mind you. Age was just a state of mind.

This was the main reason Lirath was not with Cailyn and I. My brother was developing at a normal pace for an elven child, which meant he was kept under the strict eyes of the Windrunner stewards. I was too fast for them, and I refused to slow down for anybody.

I learned to speak after running was taken care, and while I still had difficulty with some of my words, I could proudly claim that I was relatively fluent in the tongue of the high elves. Thalassian was a tough language, damnit.

Reading was a much more difficult thing, I should mention. The written language of Thalassian was nothing like the English alphabet I had been previously familiar with. It was made up of over seven hundred characters, all meaning unique things, and when put together in sentences even the slightest of deviations could create entirely different statements.

Because of this, Thalassian could not be self-taught. Sadly, my mother and sisters were not home all that often to give me instruction, though I knew they wanted to. My mother, Lireesa, was the Ranger-General of Silvermoon, the first line of defense in Quel'Thalas, and devoted most of her time towards that. Alleria, my eldest sister, was an officer of the Farstriders and was rarely even in Quel'Thalas. Sylvanas, my middle sister, was often with my mother, learning how to be a commander so that she might one day inherit the family position; Alleria stated early on she had no mind for the politics the position came with. Vereesa, my youngest sister, though still my elder by a good few years, was like Sylvanas was, though she kept to Alleria instead of their mother. She followed Alleria around and trained under her with the intention to join the Farstriders when she proved her mettle.

It was because my family wasn't available all that often that I was looked after by Cailyn. She appeared young, but she was older than Alleria was and already had a daughter that was ten years my senior. She looked after my needs and taught me what I wanted to know, so long as it was not ridiculous. When I asked her if she would teach me to read, she accepted easily. After all, what was ridiculous about wanting to learn how to read?

When Cailyn began her tutoring, the days and weeks seemed to blur. The only thing that mattered was gaining the knowledge I desired. And I did, spending far more time with my face in books than I did with my kin.

It was fairly obvious to my family that I was not a normal child, that I was someone who picked up and understood social cues no child should be able to grasp. Hell, I could sit and study written characters for hours, never offering a hint of complaint or whine. This obsession with studying was my personal choice. I had decided long ago that I wouldn't bother hiding how capable I was. I didn't have the patience to spend years pretending I had the mind of a toddler, especially not when a war was on its way. I _needed_ to gain as much knowledge as I could, as quickly as I could. There could be no breaks, no excuses.

I wasn't a fool. I was the one of the Windrunner siblings, the youngest child of the current Ranger-General of Silvermoon. I may not know the exact calendar of Warcraft, but the fact that I was a Windrunner meant I was a target to _somebody_. I could not be weak, and as sad as it was to admit, acting like the child I was meant that I would stay weaker longer than was acceptable.

Cailyn looked out the window and saw that the overhead sun was beginning to set. "It's time to go, Tharama. We'll read more later. Put on your sandals, we're heading back to the Spire."

"Do we have to?" I pouted, pointing expectantly down at the book. We'd only been at it for three hours, and I hoped to study for at least one more.

Damn, I was turning into a geek. I used to hate studying and yet, here I was, _studying_.

"You mother and sisters will be returning tonight, and perhaps they are already there. We cannot keep them waiting, they will be expecting you to be there." Cailyn was gentle with her reprimand, taking the time to run her fingers through my hair as she spoke. It felt good.

I scowled and closed the book with a great slap, causing small specks of dust flew off the pages. I doubted I could budge her; if I was expected to be present then there was little that could be done. Putting my book down, I grabbed my sandals, a simple pair of leather footpads that were neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, and packed my belongings in a knapsack. When the bag was filled I headed for the door that Cailyn held open.

We left her home hand in hand, and I made sure to stick close to my minder. Though I had the mind of an adult, there was something intimidating about being so small, not even waist high compared to most people on the streets. As we progressed, I could feel my stiff body relax bit by bit, and took the time to look around.

Windrunner Village was always a sight to see.

Situated on the south-western shore of Quel'Thalas, the village could only be described as beautiful. There were hundreds of buildings and houses made of marble stone with ruby red roofs that were gilded in patterns of gold. The roofs were colored to match the leaves of the trees, found in Eversong. There was a fountain with three naked elven women made from carved stone situated in the middle of the town. They looked so realistic that they seemed more like a trio petrified women than they did statues. Pale blue water streamed from urns held in their arms onto an open basin that jutted onto the cobblestone path that elves tread upon, going about their business. There were stalls open, markets for fish and fruit and meats, and I heard a pair of women arguing over prices.

We walked through the village for a little while, accepting gifts and greetings from various people that recognized me. Soon enough we made our way to the stables at the end of the village, a stinky place that was filled with both horses and hawkstriders of varying colors. A man was sat in the middle on a rocking chair, reading a book. He had short ginger-red hair and easy blue eyes with short, pointed ears that did not jut out like knives. He had to be a half-elf, born from the union of an elf with a human.

"Rothen, I need a ride." Cailyn's tongue was clipped with this one, I noticed. That was peculiar. Elves were often unfailingly polite when asking for favors among their kin, even to half-elves. It was only to other races, who they deemed lesser, that they were brusque and grating towards.

Rothen did not look up from his book. "A pleasure to see you as well, Cailyn. I thought you had a horse?"

"I did," she admitted. "I gifted it to my daughter when she left for Falthrien Academy two weeks ago."

The half-elf rolled his shoulder, still not looking up. "Good on her, Cariyl will do well. She's my niece, success is in her blood. What is she going there to study?"

"Alchemy."

"Hmm… I thought you wanted her to become a Magistrix?"

When Cailyn clucked her tongue, I understood. I knew my tutor was proud of her heritage, knew that she was the only child of a merchant that brought his wares all the way to Booty Bay. An explorer through and through, she would say in fond remembrance of him. I knew that her mother and father had a heated separation, but whenever I asked what happened Cailyn would brush me off. Now it made sense, her father probably came home with a half-elf bastard.

How quaint.

"Where would you like to go?" Rothen eventually asked.

"The Spire."

He snorted out an unpleasant laugh. "It's a three-mile trek. I'll not waste my time and the time of my mounts when you can walk."

"I assure you, if I could avoid you I would happily do so. However, I am in a rush, though you would know why if you would take your nose away from your damned script and see for yourself."

Rothen looked up then, taking notice of me. I waved. He let out a heavy exhale of breath, grumbling something in a muttered tone that I could not hear. He lethargically rose up from his chair and stretched, slowly making his way towards a hawkstrider. It was a yellow-green beast that stood as tall as an ostrich and was twice as thick, with a heavy beak and a pair of glittering golden eyes. Rothen led the beast towards a dull looking cart, the hawkstrider obediently waiting for its harness to be fastened.

"Climb in the back and we'll be off," said Rothen, motioning towards the cart. It was a ratty piece of equipment made from rotting wood with nails sticking out the side and oodles of thin scratches on patchwork seats.

Cailyn sat down silently and ushered me to sit down in her lap. I did so, happy to avoid the splinters I was likely to get sitting directly onto the cart. He lap was also quite comfortable, and I was small enough to use her breasts as head cushions.

Rothen took his place on the hawkstriders back and the beast let out a loud caw. It sprinted away from the stable when he slapped its ass, and I felt myself whooping in childish delight. I couldn't stop smiling. I loved going fast.

It was not a long journey. As Rothen had said, Windrunner Village was only three miles north from Windrunner Spire, where my family lived.

Windrunner Spire was a grand piece of architecture, physical proof that magic was might. Arcane spellwork took what once used to be a common cliff-face and turned it into a set of three great towers, two smaller towers to the sides of one large one; the large tower faced the sea to the west, while the other towers face the north and south. The stones of Windrunner Spire were white, so white that the sun shone on them like a beacon, and the light of the moon and stars reflected deeply, eliminating even the darkest of nights. The courtyard was packed with peoples that I did not know, lifting large crates onto wagons that were tied to horses and hawkstriders and massive rams.

When Rothen dropped us off at the courtyard I quickly found myself ushered inside by a surly guard I vaguely remembered worked here, and saw Cailyn and Rothen shooed back towards the village. They left soon after, not wanting to make a scene.

The interior of Windrunner Spire was not as large as people might expect, nor was it particularly grand. Instead of being large inside, it was tall. A great circular stairwell was sat in the middle of a red-carpeted room, its stairs reaching seven stories high and ten stories further into the earth. The main tower of the Spire was less of a home or castle and was instead more akin to a stronghold of some sort. The side towers were locked off to me, but I knew that the southern tower was where the weapons and armors were stored, and the northern tower was where the library sat. I couldn't wait until I was permitted to enter the side towers. Hopefully it would be soon.

Cousins and servants of all sorts were working in the hall, scrambling. They were carrying packs of medicine, arms of war and spell-staves, shuffling them into those large crates from the courtyard. I had never seen such a rush in my own home, and didn't really know what to think of it.

What the hell was going on?

The guard that ushered me inside ignored everybody in the room and brought the me to a podium, stationed in the far corner of the lush area, just under a skyline. It was an elevator. We stood on the podium and it floated upwards. Floor after floor, I ascended until I reached the seventh story of the Spire, where the main branch of the family resided. Lirath and I shared a room up here.

The first thing I saw upon reaching the seventh floor was my sister, Vereesa. She was standing in front of a closed door that I was rarely allowed to enter, a frown on her face. Her looks were something of note, with sky blue eyes, sharp cheeks and silver hair. She was the best looking of my sisters, I had no doubt.

"My lady, I have brought your brother as the Ranger-General bade," the guard said, catching her attention. She turned to him and saw me at his side. I delighted in the way her eyes lit up.

"Thank you, you've done well. I allow you to leave your post for the night. Head into the village and enjoy the pub quickly, lest I change my mind." Vereesa stated, not looking at the guard as he saluted. He pushed me towards my sister and returned to the podium. It descended then, leaving me alone with her.

Vereesa wasted no time. She rushed to me, embracing my form tightly. I returned the strong hug. Out of all my siblings, Vereesa was the one I was closest to, confounding to many since Lirath was my twin. Vereesa was the only other Windrunner that shared my silver hair, and she took that to mean I was hers to care for, just as Alleria took to Lirath for their shared honey-gold locks. She had more available time than my other sisters often did, and I appreciated her devotion.

"I have missed you, little moon." She said, rubbing circles into my back.

"You as well, Vereesa." It had been nearly three months since they had last seen each other. "Where have you been?"

"Ah," Vereesa was all smiles. "I was sent to the north. Alleria took a mission in Lordaeron and I am not yet a ranger. She had me travel to the Isle of Quel'Danas."

"What could you need to do there?" The Isle of Quel'Danas was the most protected area in the whole of Quel'Thalas; it was where the Sunwell, the font of power for the high elves resided. I could not see how a ranger trainee would have a purpose there.

"Nothing," my sister admitted, frowning. She looked annoyed. "Alleria had me posted there so that she could handle her duty without distraction. I spent these past few months in Dawnstar Village, helping younglings with their training and learning spellwork in the Magisters Terrace."

I nodded easily, masking my envy; I dearly wanted to study magic. In the simplest words, magic was the source of power in this world. The ability to tame creatures, to command the elements, to summons the demons of hell, to heal and destroy… Magic was might, and I wanted to be mighty.

"What type of magic did you learn?"

Vereesa smiled, pulling me towards her hip and began walking back towards the closed door. "A student of the terrace spent much of his time with me. He showed me how to create fire. A useful skill, especially on long ranges. He also showed me how to perform some more esoteric spells."

She spoke fondly of the elf that aided her, I could see. Her words were softer and her eyes were lidded. My guess is that she had a fling with this guy.

"When your magic studies begin I will happily teach you what I learned." Vereesa put her hand on the doorknob and twisted her wrist. "On that topic, I have a present for you and your brother; I'll give it to you soon."

She opened the door and we entered the room. It was mother's study, often locked tight and off limits to all but her and my sisters. There were shelves of tomes, taxidermy trophies and mounted weapons scattered across the walls of the three-sided room. In the center of the room was a single, plain desk where my mother sat, Alleria and Sylvanas at her sides while Lirath was situated in her lap.

My mother was a pretty elf, though less beautiful than her daughters. Her hair was light blonde, her eyes a light purple, and her skin harshly tanned and littered in scars.

Sylvanas looked just like mother, only she was, y'know, better looking. They had the same shade of blonde and similar scars. Similar though they may be, they were not the same. Sylvanas had sea blue eyes, skin that was still fair and she had not lost the glow of youth even as she neared her first century of life.

Then there was Alleria. She took after her father, a father that she did not share with Lirath and I. Anthas Perilon, the former paramour of Lireesa Windrunner, died some thirty years ago in an enchanting accident, an explosion that destroyed everything in a five-yard radius. Alleria had a head of honey-gold hair and a pair of light green eyes, a grim frown marring her otherwise soft features. Unlike my other sisters or my mother, she had a very distinctive tattoo, a teal line that started from the top of her left eye, ran past her eyelid and coiled down to her shoulder, snaking around her left arm, ending on the knuckle of her ring finger. It was unusual and distinctive, making Alleria easy to spot.

"Brother!" Lirath slurred, waving his arms happily towards me. I waved back.

Lirath and I were twins, yet we were not all that similar in appearance. We were fraternal. Lirath had golden blonde hair while I sported silver locks and Lirath had naturally tan skin while I was pale and easy to burn. The most apparent characteristic we shared was our eyes, violet and rare.

"Good, you've brought him." Mother slouched then, a worried look I did not know she held falling into a tired smile.

"Why are the guards preparing the arms? Are we being deployed?" Vereesa asked, keeping her hand on my shoulder.

"No, we are not being deployed. We are preparing, however." Lireesa said, waving towards Alleria. "Your sister made the call. Sylvanas and I have heard what she has to say, and we know the seriousness of the situation. I would have explained, but I felt it better that this grave news comes from her mouth."

We turned towards Alleria. The emerald eyed elf was noticeably stiff, far from her open and often relaxed disposition.

"The humans…" Alleria began, scowling as she spoke. "Terenas Menthil, the human king of Lordaeron has called upon the ancient debt the Sunstriders owe the Arathi bloodline in the name of Anduin Lothar, and has asked for our soldiers and rangers. The Orcish Horde has regrouped after the events at the Dark Portal, and this king believes this will be a war of attrition instead of a war of conquest like the last one was. The high council of Quel'Thalas has only commanded a small group of Farstriders to answer the call, myself among them."

"You're to go to war, sister?" Vereesa's voice was soft once more, soothing even. I was stock still. Vereesa's fingernails squeezed into the flesh of my shoulder.

"You have not seen the orcs, not like I have." Alleria's voice was rough and harsh. "The Horde is not a weak unit with an inflated reputation like the high council believes. They are a bloodthirsty, ruthless army of barbaric monsters that want only destruction. I have seen them fight, seen the settlements they have set to aflame. Their wroth knows no bounds and they only respect strength. _My team is not enough!_ We need to bring in respected men and women, spellweavers and healers and warriors and assassins, we need them _all_. Quel'Thalas cannot ignore this problem, it is only a matter of time before this Horde invades our homeland."

"Alleria has asked that I have my rangers join her," mother added, bouncing Lirath up on her knee. His musical laughter was the only thing keeping the tension in the room down. "I cannot order them outside our borders, much as I wish I could. A Ranger-General may only deploy elven soldiers should Quel'Thalas be invaded. This is a law that has been in effect since the rank of Ranger-General was conceived and that has not occurred, not yet. I have asked for volunteers and a fair sum have offered their aid, which is why there is so much activity in the yard. Alleria and I do not think it enough, but it is better than the paltry force we started with."

"What are we to do then?" Vereesa knelt down, bringing me to her chest. I was too shocked to enjoy the sensation. "What of you or Sylvanas? What of me? What of the twins?"

"I will guard the Thalassian pass, as I always have," mother wearily announced. "Sylvanas will take up my duties until this threat has passed, stationing herself in Silvermoon. You… Alleria had her own ideas for you."

"I would welcome you to join me, sister." Alleria said, her tone turning bright, a far cry from just a few seconds ago. "You've been a trainee for long enough. I know your skill and devotion, you are more than better than half the Farstriders. I will happily promote you."

"The situation with the twins is difficult." I felt my breathing slow down as my mother continued to speak. "There must always be a Windrunner of the main line in the Spire. And yet, I would be a fool to keep them both in the same place when we are preparing for war. Assassins and thieves could steal them when the majority of our guards are gone. Political rivals have done this once before, I do not doubt it will happen again by the hands of a proper enemy."

It was Sylvanas who spoke next, looking towards mother with a raised brow. "Then what will you do?"

She sighed then, sounding every bit her three hundred years of age. "Lirath will go with Sylvanas and keep to Silvermoon. He is the elder and it will be best if he is behind those walls. Tharama will stay in the Spire and be cared for by Corda, from Sunstrider Isle. He has a quick mind, unlike any child I have ever seen; I know he would thrive under her care."

"Corda Dormamu may as well be a stranger to you," Sylvanas hissed. Vereesa was gripping my shoulder hard enough to break skin at this point. "You knew her a century ago and have not seen her since. How could you trust a woman like that with your son, my brother?"

"I trust her little, but I know her worth." Mother slumped against her chair, pulling Lirath close, fiddling with his hair. "Corda treats her promises like kings and she owes me a debt that cannot be ignored. Looking over Tharama while we go to war is a simple enough thing, one that I believe she will do well with. Better than most. She is a teacher at Falthrien Academy, a mistress of the Arcane. She knows children and she knows how to educate them in her art. A perfect match for my youngest child."

"Mother, I do not that this is wise-"

"And I do not care." Lireesa scowled, ending whatever Sylvanas was planning to say. "I am his mother and the matriarch of this line and I have said my peace. There will be no arguing with me on this."

Sylvanas scowled and said nothing more. Alleria narrowed her eyes and I could easily some sense Vereesa's distress.

I didn't have a clue who this Corda woman was. It was a completely new name for me.

Honestly, I didn't care.

My world, the little bubble I had been born into, was going to be popped. I knew that Azeroth was a place where war was common; I had always known that and I thought I had accepted it.

It was only now that I slouched against Vereesa that I learned while I might have accepted it, I was not prepared. My family was leaving, off to a war I was not familiar with and away from home. I was to be left alone with only one person for company that I did not know. Everything was changing and it was too much.

From this conversation alone, I finally learned when I was born, in correlation to the timeline of Warcraft. And damn, I was not happy. Not happy at all. I knew the Third War through and through, and I knew the events of World of Warcraft fairly well. I didn't know much about what occurred before them, however.

Alleria's words were the key. She mentioned that the Horde had regrouped after the events at the Dark Portal. The first Horde came to Azeroth through the Dark Portal, and the sealing of it was what led to the end of the First War. At least, that's how I think it ended. I never played the first Warcraft games and didn't remember everything. If the Horde regrouped and was starting trouble once again, then it was fairly obvious as to what was occurring. Context clues and all that rot.

The Second War had begun.

* * *

 **Surprise! I actually updated relatively quickly. There is a reason for this, there won't be another update for a little while. I'm from Florida and Hurricane Irma is just about to hit. I have to prepare and then help clean up my community once it passes. So, hopefully this early update will keep you all content.**

 **It can't be called World of Warcraft if war is avoided. So, while it won't be up and close for Tharama, the Second War is now on. If you're curious as to what happens, go ahead and google it. It's an interesting story, and I'm always up for a conversation on what I intend to do with the story. Especially now that I actually know.**

 **With this, we have a small look into Tharama's personality. I haven't gone into it all that deeply, personalities are developed over time and through circumstance, and neither have happened all that much. Consider this a preview.**

 **Tharama is a little obsessive about his studies. That's because he understands that he doesn't really have the time to act like a kid, especially now that there's a war happening. Nope, there won't be a kiddy kiddy Tharama, at least not often. He's still in a world of magic, so he'll have his moments of childish awe here and there, but violence is the main use of magic, and that is when childishness is turned to conflict.**

 **I actually did change something from Canon in this chapter! In the original story, since there was no Tharama, Lirath was the one that was left at the Spire. Well, you have to note that there is no mention of Lirath Windrunner in the games. Sadly, that can only be due to one reason. Things will change further from Canon, as is expected in any format of Fanfiction, but now there might even be another living Windrunner when the main story comes about. Or, there might be a dead one raised as a lieutenant of Arthas or Sylvanas. I don't know. I don't even know if Sylvanas will become the Banshee Queen in this story. You'll just have to wait to find out.**

 **If you liked this chapter, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review!**


	3. What the Noose?

The afternoon sun was high overhead. Birds chirped and people worked. Sounds filled the court, from trade and training to shouts of surprise. There was so much sound that it deafened what others might hear.

So, the meagre noise of a thick, whitewood tree being beaten on by my tiny body was easy to ignore.

 _Punch, punch, kick. Punch, kick, kick._

Normally I wouldn't bother with this. I was three and a half, which meant my body and muscles weren't developed enough for physical training. Small stretches under careful supervision were all I could do. I was normally content to struggle through learning how to read and whatever else I could find to occupy my time.

But, this was not a normal day.

 _Kick, punch, punch. Kick, kick, punch._

Everything had changed. My family was leaving me, heading to lands and places that were far away. In terms of the game, they was going to different zones. Lirath and Sylvanas were going to Eversong Woods and Alleria and Vereesa were going to Tirisfall Glades. Mother had already departed, going towards the borders of Quel'Thalas, in the northern part of what would later be known as the Eastern Plaguelands.

Foolish though it may be, I was angry. I felt betrayed and envious and every single bad emotion there was. I was to be left alone with a stranger, in a home that was too big for just a few guards and servants and the pair of us. I wanted to rage at my mother, to tell her to go fuck herself and let me do as I pleased.

 _Punch, punch, punch. Punch, punch, punch._

But that was not the way the world worked. I didn't get a choice in the matter, and even if I did have that choice I wasn't capable of defending myself yet. I wasn't an archer of my sisters' caliber or a mage like my cousins. I was too young to wield a blade properly and I had too little stamina besides.

 _I wasn't ready._

I slammed my head into the tree, a vibration running through my body. I could see blood dribbling from my brow, feel it run down my nose. It dripped onto the grass, and blood originating from my knuckles joined it. The drops pooled together, a small puddle of red formed, looking like spilled summer wine. My vision was beginning to blur as teardrops started to form, either from emotion or from pain. I did not know.

Then I found myself picked up from behind. I did not hear anybody approach, the sounds from the courtyard and the focus of my mind must have worked against me. My back was pressed against a bodice that I recognized in an instant, I knew who this was. I wiped my wet eyes with the back of my hands and looked up. Vereesa peered down at me, her brow knit and her mouth twisted downward at the corners, frowning.

"Why have you done this to yourself?"

I didn't respond, I didn't have an answer. What was I going to say, that I was being a little bitch? That I needed to vent? That beating myself up seemed like a better idea than dealing with my problems? I said nothing and just waited for her to speak again.

Vereesa sighed, putting me down. She held my hands and walked me inside the Spire. We made our way past peoples that were still packing wares into heavy crates and stepped onto the elevator platform. It ascended four floors, stopping at the fifth. This was the floor where we stayed, myself and my brother and my sisters and my mother. It was the floor designated for the main branch of the Windrunner Clan.

I was led towards Vereesa's own room. It was a nice space with a bed sat itself in the middle of the room, large and snug with pillows aplenty and white silken sheets. Her walls were painted a silver-blue and there were light green curtains that cascaded over a redwood desk where a bag, a lute and a long silver rope was sat. The rope was glowing ethereally, and I don't believe I had ever seen something like that before. In front of the desk was a brown leather chair, patterned with black vines.

I was brought to the chair and forced to sit. Vereesa then dug through the drawers of the desk and pulled out a jar filled with a white paste. She dug her fingers into the paste and smeared it on my brow. It stung fiercely, but I did not wince.

"It is a rare thing that I let others use my salves," she softly murmured. "Often, I make them just for myself. I studied Alchemy in hopes of being able to poison my arrows like Sylvanas does, but I discovered I had a greater knack for creating healing potions than I didn't damaging poisons."

"You don't have to do this." I don't actually know why I said that. Pride, most likely.

She looked at me then, angry and hurt. "I am your _sister_. If I do not help you when you are hurt, then how could I claim that title? Younger siblings are meant to act the fool and older siblings are meant to show them their folly."

"Lirath is older than me."

"He is," Vereesa drawled, moving on to my knuckles. I flinched when the cool salve touched my raw skin. "In time, I am sure that he will be in the same position I hold. Until that day, I suppose you will have to settle for me."

I went silent then. She stopped working on my knuckles and removed my shoes. My feet weren't bleeding, but they were black and blue and deeply bruised. She applied the salve. I marveled at how the bruising visibly started to fade.

"I was searching for you," Vereesa said suddenly. "I promised a gift and I intended to deliver. My hope was that I might surprise you, that I might take your mind from what you learned yesterday. Then I found that you were not in your bed. I searched the tower, and it was only chance that I caught sight of you from a window. I did not expect to see you, my _prodigy_ brother, being a little idiot."

Now that hurt. I think this is the first time that my sister, any of my family for that matter, has purposefully insulted me, mild as it may be. They had jokingly made fun of my studying habits, but never like this.

Still, I deserved it. I probably deserved worse than a mild insult.

Vereesa grabbed the bag on her desk then and shoved it into my hands. Confused, I looked at it in detail. It was a leather satchel, colored in a yellow-orange hue with embroidery abound. It was held by a zipper, an air tight seal. I unzipped it, and as I looked inside I became even more confused. I could see nothing, only a black void that seemed emptier than I could explain.

"A sun touched satchel," Vereesa stated. "They are often used by the inhabitants of the Magisters Terrace, where the royal family reside. It is a satchel enchanted to hold more than it should. The man that taught me fire magic offered the bag when I mentioned you and Lirath."

"How deep is it?" I asked in wonder. I knew that these enchanted bags existed, my mother and sisters all used them in some way. Unlike the game, where bags had a set amount of spaces, these bags were based around depth. For example, a bag that held twelve slots in the game would likely be about six feet deep.

A sun touched satchel was a twenty-slot bag in the game.

"I am told it is between nine and ten feet deep, though I have yet to test it in full." Vereesa sounded annoyed just for admitting that. "Deep though it may be, my friend was only an apprentice in the Magisters Terrace and so only had access to lower level satchels. It does not hhold any enchantments or spellworks that makes it light. Whatever you put in your bag, its weight will be felt."

"Why would your friend have it then?" I mean, I was still happy. This was amazing and I wasn't going to complain. It just seemed a little weird for an enchanted bag to be deep without its weight carrying being altered.

"You are only three and he is just an apprentice," Vereesa shrugged. "The higher quality satchels were not open for him to take, and what does an apprentice have need of such a bag for? He carried papers and runes and reagents in his bags, not weapons or heavy armors. More than that, what would a three-year-old boy do with such a heavily enchanted bag?"

"…Not much."

"No, not much. When you are older, I might consider requesting a professional to expand the enchantments of the satchel so that you could carry much more than you normally could. For now, enjoy the gift for what it is."

I tested the bag then, sticking my arm inside and marveled at how it seeped into what seemed like a bottomless void. It felt like a thick mud, but when I removed my limb there was no residue, just a pleasant tingle.

Yeah, I wasn't going to trade this up for a long time.

"Can it do anything else?"

She hummed, thinking. "I believe it floats. Food stored inside will not rot and will instead go into a stasis of sorts. Often, these bags are used in trade, carrying fine goods and ripe meats and fruits to the human and dwarven kingdoms to the south."

"What about living things? Like animals or plants?"

Vereesa sent a strange look my way, one that I accepted. It was a strange enough question, but I just wanted to know. If the void felt like mud, what would happen if I stuck my face in it? I didn't want to accidentally kill myself in my curiosity. What if the stasis immediately shut my brain off? That's an insta-death.

"I do not know the specific details of the enchantment. All I know is that whatever goes in there is placed in a stasis that cannot be broken until the satchel itself is opened. I would assume that anything alive would similarly be placed in such a stasis, and could only be awoken when removed. If you must, sate your curiosity by putting a squirrel or a cat inside, then remove the creature a day later."

She shrugged then, running out of thoughts. I didn't mind, the silence was nice. It let me think on how I would experiment with the satchel. She put the salve back into her desk drawer and pulled out a roll of gauze. As she wrapped it around my head, I looked at the other items on her desk. The lute was wrought in gold and its strings were white like clouds, though it was the rope that held my attention in a way I couldn't properly explain. It was almost hypnotizing.

Looking closer, I saw that the rope was _old_. Its edges were frayed, the actual twine that held it was stitched a thousand times over, and without its luster it would likely be a dull grey; unnoticeable and useless.

"What are the things on your desk?"

Vereesa looked up from my now bandaged head and laughed, a light and wondrous sound that eased my wounds better than any salve could. "The lute is my gift for Lirath. You know how he loves to sing, I thought he might take well to learning proper music. I had thought you two could learn together, but now my hope is that Sylvanas will teach him; she's an accomplished harpist."

It was hard to imagine my stern, no nonsense sister sitting down and playing a traditional and highly feminine instrument like the harp. She seemed the type that would prefer a piano, letting her play dark and gloomy music.

Vereesa continued. "The rope was a gift loaned from mother to myself, a proof of my promotion. As of this morning I am a fully-fledged ranger of the Farstriders."

"Congratulations!" She had been a trainee of the Farstriders for a decade now and absolutely deserved her new title.

"Thank you," she smiled, taping my knuckles with the gauze. Her smile turned strained in a flash. "Mother would not budge on her stance on sending us away and keeping you here, I'm afraid. I _am_ sorry, I tried my best to have you come with me, or with Lirath. She would not allow you to even go to Corda, safe on Sunstrider Isle."

"I don't mind." A lie that rang hollowly, I'm sure. I would have been happy to go to Sunstrider Isle and learn magic, but that was not to be. Quickly, I diverted from this subject. "Did you take Alleria's offer from yesterday?"

Slowly, she nodded. "With Lirath leaving and you under guard, I thought it was wise to accept the title, yes; to be useful in this war. Mother allowed me to use Halduron's Noose upon leaning I would be leaving."

I blinked at her, silently conveying my confusion. She sighed and grabbed the role on her desk, twisting it around. "Halduron's Noose is a Windrunner artefact, a treasure we have held since the ancient days, named after Halduron Windrunner, our many times great grandfather. It is an artefact from before there were high elves, when the empire of Azshara still ruled the world. Whenever one of our members becomes a ranger in some form, we are allowed to use its power. I am expected to return it to mother when the war is over."

Mother might not be here by the time the war was over, however. "What does it do?"

"It is a spell conduit."

"What spell does it hold?" Spell conduits were items that held a specific type of magic. Normally, they would take the form of weapons like wands and swords, and these weapons would exemplify a single power. Swords that would burn their foes and wands that shot bursts of frost magic came to mind. Those weren't enchanted weapons like the game showed, they were combat orient spell conduits. These were _rare_ things, I should add. My family only had a few, Thas'Dorah not included, and my mother and sisters hoarded them jealously.

Even with that knowledge, I couldn't quite place how a rope would be useful as a spell conduit.

"It holds a magic that is not well known; a spell that is known by many names, though the most accepted one is Tame. With Halduron's Noose, I could gain the allegiance of a beast of considerable strength without needing to worry about details such as compatibility, though power is something to note. Alleria used this rope to tame her lynx, Sylvanas her bat and mother her gryphon."

I felt my mouth water and greed course through me. This was a rope that made all the hard work a hunter would put into their craft null and void. The ability to tame any beast, regardless of strength, was insane. Insane and amazing and so many other things that words would not do justice.

I wanted it. Dear god, _I wanted it!_

"Sadly, I doubt it will get much use from me," Vereesa said, her tone morose and disappointed. "It is an old and weathered artefact, and I would likely break it should I bring it to war. I would dearly love to use it, there is a dragonhawk matriarch I set my eyes upon when on the Isle of Quel'Danas; a great black beast, greater in size than even those bred by flight masters. Sadly, I will not have the opportunity until after the war."

"Can you tame as many animals as you want?"

"No, of course you can't." She actually balked at the thought. "The noose recognizes magical signatures. One use per signature, which means one use per person. That is why those that are given the opportunity to use it tend to be selective with their animal companions. Mother trekked all the way to the Arathi Highlands to tame her gryphon and Sylvanas journeyed even farther, to the cave infested lands surrounding Karazhan far to the south. Alleria was simple; she took to a lynx that prowled An'owyn and decided to take him as her own. I remember when I was a young girl, mother told me that her grandfather traveled to Northrend in search of his companion and returned with a great green proto-drake."

"What happened to the proto-drake?" That rope could tame proto-drakes? Proto-drakes were dragons, which meant that rope could tame dragons.

 _I will have this rope._

"When grandfather died, the beast flew away," she shrugged. "I do not know where it, likely it just returned to its nest of birth."

I knew I was pestering her at this point, wanting to know everything there was to know about the artefact. I just couldn't stop. "Can magical signatures change?"

She wrinkled her nose. "In rare circumstances, yes. Being cursed for example, or taking a great power into yourself that is unlike your own. Often, the change of a magical signature leads to death, so I would not seek out ways to do this."

"How does the rope work?"

"Even though it is a rope, it is called a noose because it works like a noose. You wrap it around the neck of your companion of choice, and a connection will take hold. The spell will begin to take hold then, and the taming process will have commenced."

I hummed, thinking.

"Now that we are on the topic of the rope…" She stood and grabbed the rope in question. Walking to her bed, she pushed at its wooden base. A hidden compartment I did not know existed opened, and she stuffed the rope into the drawer. I looked on as she pushed the compartment once more, the hidden drawer returned to its hidden space just as her hand returned to her side.

She turned back to me, smiling. "It needs a good place to rest. I tried to return it to mother, but she insisted. Hopefully, by the time the war is over I will be able to use it as I was meant to."

She pulled me out of the chair then, setting me on my feet. I experimentally moved around. I couldn't feel the soreness on my toes anymore. I jumped around and only felt slightly numb.

"I intend to give Lirath his lute now. Put your shoes on and come with me."

I did as she bade, my mind firmly on the hidden space in her bed. I grabbed my new satchel and left the room with my sister, hand in hand.

* * *

Vereesa left the Spire three days later, along with Alleria. That was this morning. The goodbyes were tearful and filled with worry, and I was told that Lirath and Sylvanas were to leave tomorrow. I still was not ready for my family to leave, but I was better prepared than I was before.

It was night time now. In the early morning the last of my family would be gone, and it was entirely possible I would not ever see them again. If I did, it would be a long way out.

I took the time to creep out of my room, my enchanted satchel strapped to my side. I shared my quarters with Lirath and my brother was sleeping like the babe he was, like the babe I was meant to be. I snuck out and headed towards Vereesa's room.

The door was locked. I silently cursed, why did I think this would be easy?

I tip-toed around the hall and came across Alleria's room. This one, unlike Vereesa's, was unlocked.

Her room was painted a dull yellow, and trophies of hunted animals littered the walls. It was similar to mother's office, save for the large cot in the middle of the room. I went to her desk and opened her drawers. They were empty. I turned to her bed and checked if it had a hiding place like Vereesa's did. It did not, I was disappointed to find.

"You best have an explanation," a curt voice sounded from behind. I whirled around and found myself face to face with a thoroughly unamused Sylvanas. Her stare was harsh, even in her night clothes. She wore a loose cloth shirt that took up the whole of her body, ending at her knees. It was a human made item, strangely enough.

"Uhh…"

In case you couldn't tell by the way I spoke, I didn't think of an explanation.

Her harsh stare softened, if only a tad. It was still a heavy look, but that was the kind of person Sylvanas was. I did not fault her for this.

Slowly, she moved her fingers to her side, a jingle softly echoed through Alleria's room. I saw a ring of keys attached to her hip, keys that were made from copper and silver and gold, keys that were forged with iron and brass.

Sylvanas sighed. "Get out of this room and follow me to my quarters, you will sleep with me. No more meandering. It is night and you are young, you'll need all the rest you can get."

This was very off, Sylvanas hated sharing her space. Vereesa and Alleria were the sisters that doted on Lirath and I, Alleria more on Lirath and Vereesa more on me. They would invite us into their beds on occasion, and it was not all too rare for me to sleep in these rooms when they were gone; their beds were more comfortable than mine. Sylvanas slept in a hammock instead of a bed and did not like others to sleep with her. She was a light sleeper and woke up easily to movement, which was the only thing that could happen when two people slept in the same hammock.

Still unsure, I nodded slowly. She grabbed me by the shoulder and led me out of Alleria's room, locking it behind us for good measure. The gold key was the one for Alleria's room, I noticed. Sylvanas escorted me further, back to her room. She moved to a silver key and turned the lock. It clicked.

She opened the door and scooped me up, surprising me. Sylvanas was not the type to show any physical affection. I found myself bodily thrown onto her hammock, my satchel flattened from beneath my body.

"Now go to sleep." Ah, never mind. She wasn't showing affection, she just didn't want me to waste time. That was more like the Sylvanas I knew.

Her room was a spartan setting. Deep purple walls were decorated with nothing save for this hammock, a small dresser and a plain corner desk. The only thing unusual about the room were the chirps that echoed from the roof. I looked up and saw Gerrow, the giant bat Sylvanas called companion, perched upside down on a rafter. He stared at me with its great big, beady yellow eyes and bared its fangs.

Fuck, I don't know why Sylvanas even likes that thing. It was downright evil.

She stuffed her keys into the drawer of her desk and then joined me on the hammock. Her body squished me to the side, and she used her arms to shuffle me onto her front. Humming, she stroked my hair, and I felt my eyes grow heavy quickly.

* * *

I awoke in a hammock all to myself. Sylvanas was gone and Garrow's perch was empty overhead.

I crawled out of the hammock, padded my way over to the corner desk and looked through her drawer. The ring of keys was still there, and I breathed a sigh of relief. At least I would be able to go places in the Spire.

Stuffing the ring into my satchel, I exited Sylvanas's room. The halls were unusually quiet as opposed to the constant sounds and chatters that echoed from the floors below. I decided to take the stairs today, foregoing of the elevator platform.

Going down floor after floor, I saw that my home was like a ghost. There were a few guards walking around, and a couple of servants going about their daily chores, but it was too quiet. This wasn't the way it should have been.

Windrunner Spire was always buzzing with activity. Even when all of my sisters and my mother were gone at the same time there was something happening. Competition between my cousins, cookoffs between the chefs, training and debating and all manner of activity. This- this wasn't right.

I found my way to the second floor. A maid with dyed green hair greeted me quietly and led me to the dining hall, ready to give me some breakfast.

The dining hall was like a small cafeteria, with a group of smaller tables for workers and trainees and a head table for the peoples that held the name Windrunner. At the front of that table was a highchair, where mother would sit when she was here. Often, when she returned from a trip or one of my sisters did, they would feast and celebrate the occasion.

"I am glad you've finally decided to break your fast, boy." A dull voice rang from the head table, a voice I did not recognize. It was light and heavy all the same, and definitely female.

I whipped my head towards the table. There, sitting brazenly on my mothers highchair, was a woman I had never seen. She had curly black hair that rested all the way down to her stomach, well-tanned skin and green eyes with slit, catlike pupils.

The stranger stood and marched towards me. She was clothed in a simple red robe with golden accents around her wrists and waist, and she held a silver staff with a pointed sapphire at its tip. The sapphire glowed and I found my arms locked to my sides, and my body floating in the air. The staff twitched and I was sent flying towards her, stopping less than a foot away. Our faces were nearly touching.

Looking at her, I could see she was beautiful, even by elven standards. And for some reason, I felt like a piece of meat before her gaze. It was almost predatory, goosebumps sprouted along my neck and I shivered as she inspected me.

She smiled then, a slow and frightening grin that showed off her bleach white teeth and a pair of great big canines.

"I am Corda Dormamu, your new minder. You won't be late any more, will you? I'd _hate_ to have to teach you why being on time is such an important thing."

* * *

 **Dun dun dun! Corda is a pretty interesting OC I thought up a while back, and I even incorporated her in the second version of Whatcraft. In that iteration of the story she was a teacher over at Falthrien Academy, and I delegated her to being Tharama's mentor. She chose that position in that version, and I felt that events were far too easy. That she was quick to take over the position of being a mother or sister or a combination of the two. She was one of the characters I had the hardest times figuring out.**

 **Now though, now she's quite a bit different. This Corda isn't taking Tharama on because she saw something interesting, now she has had an oath called in and is being forced to do this. That'll breed some interesting communications between the two, and hopefully will show you that Tharama's easy life has basically ended.**

 **Those interactions with Vereesa and Sylvanas were nice. I wanted to use Vereesa's promotion to introduce the noose, it's going to be quite important to this story around the end of the Arc after Quel'Thalas. Yes, I am willing to say that he won't use it on any animals located in Eversong, which means no hawkstriders or dragonhawks. I love them to bits, but I needed to put a limit on the rope. Tharama might still learn the spell to tame beasts and get one of those animals later on in the story, but right now my focus is more inclined towards being selective. I know what he will tame should he be able to keep the rope, and later on it might become a little obvious, but I can guarantee you won't be guessing it any time soon. Here's a hint: it's a quest mob you have to kill. If you guess it, i'll mention you in my next Author's Note.**

 **A few of you might not like that I created an artefact that wasn't present in the game, and some might even think it's OP. In a way, it is. In another way, it isn't. This isn't a game breaking item, it's not like Halduron's Noose will allow Tharama to tame Deathwing. No, the only reason a proto drake was able to be tamed by it was that it was too unintelligent not to fall sway. A normal Dragon from WoW can't be tamed, just like a Druid can't be tamed. There will be further limits on the noose that will be explained if even Tharama gets to use it.**

 **One last thing before this is done. I live directly in the path of Hurricane Irma. I'm more concerned about surviving and helping out my community than I am dealing with FF and updating this story. This is just a note explaining that it'll be a little bit before the next update. Last year, I helped clean up from the storm, and this year will be no different.**

 **If you liked this, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review.**


	4. Times Change

Corda Dormamu is a person that could be described in one word: Bitch. She is the epitome of somebody that is difficult to deal with, with a short temper, a willingness to tan my hide, and was more than happy to hold long grudges.

On top of that, she's patient and more than able to wait for me to get where she wants me to be.

So, the first thing she did was stuff me in her room (and didn't that just hurt, she stole the room right next to mine, so I couldn't take any breaks) and made me read. Normally this would be a good thing; I dearly want to be able to read and learn all about this world from a first-person perspective and she was giving me what I wanted. However, while I do enjoy reading and learning, spending _twelve hours_ a day doing this was extraordinarily taxing.

Not that she cared, mind you.

My schedule was terrible. No breaks, no communication with the Spire servants, and no quitting. I wasn't even allowed to view the letters my family sent me, Corda claiming them to be distractions. It was only dumb luck that she let me keep my sun touched satchel; I didn't have a teddy bear, but I was able to convince Corda that I used the bag as a substitute. I slept with it every night and carried it with me wherever I went.

There was no way I would allow it out of my sight.

I did attempt to quit at one point, to just see if I could be a shaman or a paladin or something; all magic interested me, and the obsessive studying that Corda demanded wasn't my cup of tea. She cut me off quickly, stating that she was called to teach, and I was going to learn no matter how much I kicked and screamed. And boy, did I kick and scream.

Now though, regardless I my aggravation, the results of four months of continual studying were clear.

While not perfectly fluent, I could read Thalassian.

Corda had been quizzing me, checking to ensure that I was capable of understanding everything that was presented in tomes the size of my skull. These were massive books, books that were meant to teach the beginnings of magic to me. Of course, she didn't allow me to actually read these books, but I was permitted to skim some concepts and theorems.

According to her, I was ready. Barely.

With that announcement, it was time. Finally, it was _time_.

I would be learning some magic.

Happy fourth birthday to me.

* * *

"What is magic?"

This was a common way for Corda to start a lecture. She would ask me a question, and when I answered it incorrectly she would show me how very wrong I was.

We were sat on the cliffs that were just behind the Spire, looking over the vast expanse known as the North Sea. Corda looked clean and elegant, as usual, while I was dirty and soaked from water splashing on me, but was too excited to care.

"Magic is the power of… will?"

It was a question that I couldn't answer, no matter how embarrassing that was. Magic was something that couldn't be defined easily at all, and Corda rarely allowed me to read any tomes or scrolls that held details of magic. History and ethics were her favorite teaching tool.

She snorted at me, "I expected better from you, _genius._ You're quite far off."

Well fuck you too.

Corda never called me Tharama, nor did she call me Windrunner or anything I could claim was relevant to my name. She just called me sarcastic titles, like _genius_ and _hopeful_. Her words were always tinged with some sort of hidden humor, never letting me in on the joke but anybody could tell that I was the butt of it.

Somehow, she must have understood my thought. Her eyes snapped to mine, and I shuddered ever so slightly as her pupils slit into thin lines; her telltale sign of annoyance.

With a breath, her eyes returned to normal and she calmed. "I suppose you wouldn't know, smart thought you are, you are still young. There is little wisdom in you, though it shall soon come."

"Then what _is_ magic?" She could call me whatever she wanted, so long as she answered the question.

Corda closed her eyes and hummed. "Magic, in its most basic sense, is the energy of the universe. It is stronger in some locations than others, but all the same it is ever-present. The nature and uses of magic are vigorously debated, but the magnitude of what it can accomplish cannot be doubted." She had this… This _look_ in her eyes. Like she was in reverence, speaking the word of the gospel. "Magic is what gives the stars their luster, what allows the sun and moon rise and fall, and it is through magic that this world was given life. And, just as magic gave Azeroth life, so too shall magic be what kills it."

I had honestly… Forgotten. No, that isn't the word; ignored is closer. I ignored just how intrinsic magic is in this land. The natural laws of Azeroth are completely different to the laws of Earth.

On Earth, science was king, and scientists devoted their lives to understanding the planet and the universe it inhabited. Earth was made up of a crust, a mantle and a core. But Azeroth wasn't Earth. Here, science was just a fanciful study, only alchemists and engineers took it seriously. Azeroth was made up of a crust about twenty times the size of Earth's, and there was no mantle. The core of Azeroth was not made of liquid flame, it was instead a living thing. What lay inside Azeroth was a Titan, a God.

"But," Corda continued. "Though magic is present all around us, it is also present inside us. The Trolls were the first to discover magic, then the Night Elves learned. From them we descend, and from them we evolved; our power greater than all others. Magic is our right, and you shall now partake in its bounty."

She then lifted a dainty little hand and stuffed it down the front of her robe. From what I presume to be a pocket in her corset, she pulled out a small crystal vial, filled to the brim with a golden liquid.

"This is the bounty of the High Elves; the water of the Sunwell. As is our right, all our kin that wish to learn magic are granted a drink. One sip, and magic will be given to you. Now come, drink and be made anew. Claim your destiny."

I knew the history of the Sunwell well, better than most other elves. I didn't know its magic or what gifts it gave, but I knew where it came from.

The Sunwell was made by Dath'Remar Sunstrider on the Isle of Quel'Danas, the island he claimed as the first part of his kingdom. It's power was so vast, Dath'Remar was able to form an entire kingdom around it and fight the Amani Empire with it. But, even with all that power, the Sunwell is only a trickle when compared to its original source: The Well of Eternity. The Well of Eternity was what made the Night Elves thrive. It was formed when Aman'thul, leader of the Titans, accidentally harmed Azeroth. The Well wasn't a natural occurrence, it was the blood of the Titan sleeping in Azeroth's core. It's power was so great, Sargaras himself was intending to use it as a portal; though he never had the chance when the Well imploded, sundering the world forevermore. Watered down though it may be, the Sunwell carried the blood of a Titan.

I wouldn't let this chance escape me. I stood and grabbed the vial from Corda with shaky hands. I uncorked it and downed it like a shot of vodka. The aftertaste was sweet and wonderful. My mind was light, I felt pure and free…

Then the pain came.

And there was so, _so_ much pain. My body felt like it was on fire, while also feeling like it was freezing. My head was as light as a feather, but my body felt like it had a thousand pounds weighing it down. I fell on to the grass, screaming in pure agony, clawing at my chest. The sweetness of the Sunwell was quick to be replaced with the coppery tang of my blood.

It was only when water crashed against the coast, soaking me once more, that the pain went away. I sputtered out a gasp, seaweed stuck in my mouth. My body didn't appreciate that splash, and I randomly began to hurl out my breakfast.

"Perhaps a more difficult awakening," Corda mused, "But an awakening all the same."

"Wha- What the hell are you on about?" I was on my knees, gasping.

"It is quite dangerous to consume the water of the Sunwell. As far as I'm aware, you are one of the youngest to survive the ingestion. It is often that younglings with the inclination towards magic would take their place around the age of fourteen. Congratulations, you have succeeded your counterparts by a decade."

I threw the seaweed at her. She did nothing, though the plant stopped midair, twisting and turning until it whipped me across the face. A small trickle of blood fell.

"Your anger is deserved, though greatly misplaced." Though I couldn't see her face, I was able to infer that her tone was anything but kind. "Your mother asked me to look after you while the war is occurring, not for me to teach you anything. It was my prerogative that you learn as you have, and if I did not give you this then you would spend another decade waiting around, doing nothing of note. Perhaps longer, should the protective nature of your mother prove true. Yes, I risked your wellbeing. I also improved it remarkably. Do you see now?"

I couldn't see anything; my vision was blurry as all sin.

The fight in me was quick to leave. I was tired and weak, and needed to sleep. My body was further along than my mind, already dead to the world.

I was quick to join it.

* * *

I awoke to light. Not the light of the sun or moon, nor was it the light of a fire or an arcane lamp. It was a pale lime light, so bright it was near blinding. It was wrapped around me, cocooning me; soothing me. I felt… I don't know the term, peaceful? Content? It was a far better feeling than the pain that made me pass out in the first place.

Now that I looked around, there were lights everywhere. This was my room, but there was something… Something _more_. My bed was surrounded by a dull purple gleam, the doorknob had a dusting of yellow on it, and even my chair and desk were coated in a red mist.

What the hell was going on?

I stood, the pale lime cocoon dissipating. I felt great, better than ever actually. I hadn't had this much energy in either of my lives. However, I was horribly coordinated, moving around like a damned drunk. My satchel was by my bed, brimming with a cyan mist. I grabbed it, noting how the mist didn't move at all when the leather of the bag met my skin.

…Why did my satchel seem smaller? Added to that, why did my _room_ look smaller?

I trotted away, satchel in hand. The door wasn't locked, and I didn't want to risk something by touching that yellow dust, so I just pushed the wood out. The whole of the hall was a myriad of color, and as I walked I saw shades of color I hadn't ever seen. I walked sedately, taking in the unusual change to my own home.

The podium to go between the Spire floors was now surrounded by a vortex of pink lines. I stood on the platform and stared as the pink lines illuminated further, running downwards along with the descending disk.

When I landed on the second floor, I rushed towards the dining hall. I was hungry, unusually hungry at that. I was so intent on making my way to the dining hall, I nearly missed a marking on the wall. I stared at the mark. It was what Vereesa and Alleria did for Lirath and me, marking at the wall to see how tall we were. The last time I was measured was a month ago, and I stood at forty inches.

But, as I looked down at that marking that now barely reached my shoulder, something twisted in my gut.

Corda approached in my peripherals, from the dining hall. Her form was a rainbow of colors. "I suppose your reaction to your awakening was greater than I could have predicted. My apologies."

She apologized? _Corda_ apologizing? She never did that, Corda was the most unapologetic person I had ever met.

Wha-What…

"What _happened?_ " Regardless of the fact that I was happy to have grown, people didn't grow this quickly in any natural capacity. Nor did they see colors in everything. The water of the Sunwell did something it shouldn't have, I was certain.

"You took to the Sunwell quite strongly, as is apparent. Come, sit. I will explain as best I can."

This was the kindest I had ever seen Corda act. She gently grabbed my shoulder and pushed me towards a chair, instead of lifting me with her magic and shunting me on the floor when she was done.

She stood in front of me now, her staff in hand. The sapphire at its tip shimmered with periwinkle.

"Imagine if you will, that your body is a balloon," she began, an illusion of said balloon forming from her staff, just above its pointed sapphire. "A simple piece of rubber capable of holding air and water. Your magic is the air it would hold. Upon awakening your magic, the balloon began to fill. Do you follow?"

I nodded, staring as the balloon began filling with air.

"Now, the Sunwell is not air, it is water. Upon ingesting it, your magic was filled with water instead of air. It is heavier and more potent in turn."

The image twisted, the air in the balloon replaced with liquid; gravity forcing it towards the tip of Corda's staff.

"Normally, an elf that ingests the waters of the Sunwell is quite a bit older than you are and their bodies are larger and sturdier. In your case, since you were so young, the balloon itself was too weak to sustain the water it held. Your body was too small, too untrained; it couldn't hold the magic it now held, so it..."

The balloon then began to leak. I gulped.

"Magic is tied to the fabric of being, so much so that unleashing it is the equivalent of unleashing ones very life force. Since your body was too weak to support the magic you now held, it was apparent that you were soon to lose it all. As magic is your life force, when you run out of magic, you run out of life; loss of magic equals loss of life."

The balloon fell onto the tip of her staff, popping. The liquid it held wasn't water, it was blood. The blood ( _my blood_ ) scattered all over the tiled floors, and I felt a trickle of bile form in my mouth.

"I was a fool." She looked remorseful, shamefaced and genuine. "I mistakenly allowed your fervor for learning to blind me to reality. You were too young and should not have drunk from the Sunwell, regardless of my deeming you mentally ready to learn magic. I should have just allowed you to study magical theories, so that when your magic awakened you would have a leg up on your competition."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Yesterday you said that I should be thanking you!"

Her smile turned… Weak? Brittle? "For you, this all occurred yesterday. For me… It has been three months since the accident. I had no choice but to forcefully put you into a coma, using chronomancy to increase the growth of your body to support your magic. You might as well be ten years old now, and you are quite a bit larger than most ten-year old's are meant to be. If I did not do this, there was no question in my mind that you would die."

The illusion of blood now twisted, forming into a full-body mirror that floated just in front of me. I stared at my reflection, touching myself experimentally.

I still had puppy fat, but it was far less apparent than it was yester- _three months ago_. My ears were longer, my chin and cheeks more pronounced; my silver hair was now to the middle of my back. What was unusual was that my body, which was quite thin and skinny, was now large and stocky. Elves didn't have this body type, they were all lithe and agile creatures. I looked like I was going to grow up to be a linebacker.

I tried to think, tried to determine why this happened. Yes, I was too young to awaken my magic the traditional way of the elves, but drinking from the Sunwell wasn't the only way to do so. Humans and Dwarves and Gnomes awakened their magic by casting passive magics on their kin, however long it took for their bodies to recognize and emulate that feeling. The Sunwell was a way to brute force magical awakenings, as well as quickly replenish low levels of magic. _Why did this happen?!_

Then it came to me.

Magic was life force. Life force was defined by age and experience. I lived till I was twenty-nine in my previous life, thus I had a greater life force than any four-year old child could claim to hold. My magic being awoken wasn't dangerous because of the Sunwell, it was dangerous because I was naturally going to have more than others. The potency of the Sunwell just added to the risk.

"I have spent these past three months in utter regret, thinking of nothing save for your survival. I understand if you hold any thoughts of retribution; I might as well have stolen your childhood. If you wish, I shall simply leave. I know I have given you little joy over these seven months."

I turned away from my reflection, staring at her morose face. Oh, I felt rage. She stole time that I could use well. That was quick to leave. I was living in the middle of the Second War, this newly aged body would serve me well. If nothing else, I could run faster and farther now.

"You're feeling bad, huh?" I glared at her, fists clenched. "The way I see it, you don't get to leave. Not while you owe me a debt."

Her expression was quick to twist into a wary sort of aggravation. "A debt? I saved your life, there is no debt between us."

"My life wouldn't have been in danger if not for you."

The mirror dissipated. Her staff glowed a bloody crimson, and her wary aggravation was turning to pure aggravation. She glared a green fury and her tongue was wet with venom. "And what would you ask for, should I acknowledge a debt?"

I squared my shoulders and our glares met. "Make me your apprentice."

Did she really think I was going to let her go? She was a mistress of the Arcane, and if her story checked out she was able to use chronomancy, arguably the most difficult branch of magic there was. The ability to manipulate time was an art less than a handful of mortals could claim to hold knowledge of. I wouldn't allow her to slip through my fingers; not until she payed me back for the time I lost.

Not until I learned what I needed.

Her face fell into a decidedly false neutrality. There was no emotion, and her voice turned flat. "I have never taken an apprentice. I have taught large lectures and tutored singular students, but never an apprentice. Why should I do such a thing for an untrained boy such as you?"

"Because you owe me. Mother said you treat your promises like kings, and you honor all debts, and make no mistake, there _is_ a debt. This will square any debt you hold with the Windrunners, through both my mother and myself."

Her neutrality was quick to fall, and her staff lost that menacing crimson. Nothing more was said. She just stared at me, her slit pupils so thin they might as well have been paper. She left then, hollering a servant to give me some food.

Well, now I know that the bitch in her was just hidden. It's back now, so there's nothing to be terribly concerned about with regards to her.

And she didn't say no…

…Nor did she say yes.

…

…

…

I'll take it as a victory.

* * *

 **Apologies for the long wait. If you read my profile page, you'll be able to find out why it took so long to get to my stories. I'm not really interested in venting on my authors note page, so give that a looksie if you're curious.**

 **So, timeskip. Officially Tharama is 4 ¼ years old, but physically he's ten. His body type also went through a drastic change to support his newfound magic. It'll be useful later on, you'll see.**

 **Next chapter will be filled with interactions between Corda and Tharama, magic will be explored, and I hope to throw a major curveball in the works. If I don't, I hope I at least allude to one. I've had it in mind for quite a while. Some have figured out the first part of my curveball, but the second part is something nobodies determined.**

 **Thank you for reading. If you liked this chapter please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review.**


	5. Frost and Flame

The physiology of an elf is quite different to that of humans.

While it is true that an elf mentally grows at a slower pace when compared to humans, we physically grow far quicker. Say for example that a human male officially finishes growing at twenty-five years old; an elf was more likely to finish growing at around seventeen, possibly even younger. There's not really been any research into how big a difference our growth patterns are since most elves couldn't give two shits about humans, but still, we grow fast.

Now, I'm not just spouting this information to prove that I know shit. There is a reason for all of this.

For humans, it's considered smart to begin being highly physical around their early teens. By highly physical, I speak of weight training and other physically straining activities. Around that age-frame it's unlikely for heavy exercise to effect growth in negative formats, and the earlier you work your body the healthier you will be over a longer period of time.

Elves, however, didn't need to wait until their teens. Exercise doesn't affect their growth patterns in any negative way, and it is encouraged for children of six to start this heavy exercise routine. Sometimes even earlier.

Do you understand where I'm going with this? I was born four years ago, but physically I was closer to what would be expected of a ten-year-old, a large one at that.

And Corda, bitch that she was, decided that I needed to catch up.

"GET MOVING, _BOY!_ " She screamed, a whip of conjured water smacking just behind the heels of my feet. I did indeed pick up the pace, having no desire to be hit by her. I'd already tested whether or not she would, and now there was no question that Corda was going to back up her threat of corporal punishment. She'd proved it readily enough. My ass still stung.

This was my tenth lap around the grounds of the Spire, with a heavy plate-mail vest strapped to my body. I was tired, I was sweaty, and I was _so close_ to just being _done_.

Don't get me wrong, I don't actually mind this in the slightest. I am genuinely happy that I can work out in this fashion so early on; I had been expecting, with the war and most of my family gone, that I wasn't going to have the opportunity to practice like this until I was properly a ten-year-old. If I survived that long, that was. At best, I would have been able to self-exercise, but having a trainer made all the difference, and as much as I didn't want to admit it, Corda knew what she was doing.

In my first life, I was one of those guys that just got by without being very active. I played games and read books and didn't go outside very often, and I definitely ignored my physical fitness. Luckily, I was born with a fast metabolism that never really left, so even when I did nothing, nothing really affected me. But I did always envy the peoples that I saw on television that had those perfectly sculpted bodies, though I had no desire to fix myself.

So. This right now? This was great. What wasn't so great was Corda's state of mind. She believed that a strong body begot a strong magic, and she further explained this by telling me that the most powerful mages in the world were extremely fit. Their bodies could take the strain that the magic they produced brought forth, purely because they were so athletic. I'd always been curious why Jaina and Aegwynn were so sexy and Rhonin and Khadgar were so muscular. Had it been because Blizzard just wanted to make their main characters the objects of their fans desires?

Well, yes. That was probably what was going through their heads. But now I learned there was a legitimate reason for their sexiness.

Corda refused to teach magic to somebody that wasn't in a similar state of fitness, regardless of my magic already being strong. She wouldn't take somebody on as an apprentice that didn't fit this criterion.

According to her, I needed to be able to run at least five laps around the Spire in a full suit of platemail armor without breaking a sweat before she'd show me anything. When I claimed that was impossible, not only did she prove me wrong, she had the leftover guards and even one of the _maids_ prove me wrong. They all went into the armory, grabbed some armor, and ran _twenty_ laps. The maid was sweating a little, while Corda and the guards weren't even winded.

You might ask why she would do this. She gave me the water from the Sunwell so that she could teach me magic in the first place, so why would she add this kind of stipulation?

It's actually pretty simple and I should have expected this based on the way we had been previously. At least I learned something new about Corda in the aftermath of it all.

The whip struck me directly on side of my left thigh, making me jump up with a surprised yelp, my balance entirely lost as I tumbled down a small hill.

" _BOY!"_

I blackmailed her into accepting me as her apprentice.

She didn't appreciate that.

So, no matter how petty it may have been, she decided to punish me for being a little shit.

Water spouted from all around me, the grass I was plopped down on turning dead as moisture twisted into a vaguely recognizable shape. A Water Elemental took form, lifting me to my feet with a wake of its body.

"The whip apparently isn't working well enough," Corda called out from her flying carpet that had been following me, her eyes glittering. Those eerie, slit pupils, reminiscent of a cat, were so dilated with in sadistic glee they might as well have been marbles. "So, we'll have to rely on a construct."

The Water Elemental twisted once more, the liquid that was its make up funneled into _eight more whips_ , twirling quick enough that they tore the grass beneath us like a weed wacker.

Fuck.

As I ran, screaming my head off, I could readily hear a torrent of twisting water following.

I probably got myself apprenticed to one of the worst people I could have gone to.

Worth it, though.

* * *

Surprisingly, it didn't take me too long to reach Corda's goal. One month later, I was able to run her circuit in a full suit of shrunken armor, a little tired but not enough for it to really affect me.

Now you might ask yourself how that was possible. And I would normally join you in asking this.

The simple answer is: the maid.

Turns out, our maid, an elf that went by the name Glori'il, had not always been a maid. Her current position was actually quite recent. She was hired on in the aftermath of mine and Lirath's birth. Glori'il had been a healer prior to this, a member of the Clergy of Lordaeron who channeled the energies of the Light into the injured and sickly.

I won't lie, I don't really know much about the Light or the Void or any branch of magic. Not really. Blizzard wasn't especially clear on how magic was accessed, only that it was accessible to those with the right temperaments. My living on Azeroth has helped fill in some blanks, but there was still much that was unknown to me, and rightly so. Oooh, I can't wait to pick apart the secrets of this world.

Ah, I went off tangent. What was I talking about…

Glori'il. Right.

So yeah, Glori'il had been hired by Alleria to serve as both a maid and a healer for us twin terrors. With Lirath in Silvermoon, I was now the singular object of her focus. That thing where I hurt myself and Vereesa gave me some salves? Yeah, if Vereesa's stuff hadn't healed me up as quick as it did, Glori'il would've been the one to deal with me, and she would have healed up my scabs in a span of a few minutes. Maybe even less.

She may have been a quiet thing, but her abilities were nothing to scoff at.

So, anyways. Glori'il and Corda formed a very unlikely duo. Well, actually that's not right. Even if she was quiet about it, I could tell that Glori'il did not like Corda. She was always glaring at her, and the only reason she was near my master(and I don't care what she says, Corda is my master) was because I tended to be hurt. Corda would beat me into the ground with her exercise routines and strict regimens and Glori'il would heal up my battered and broken body, the muscles that had been torn mended into a newly improved state. The damage that was done to my body that would normally have taken a few days to settle was dealt with in a span of a small, fifteen minute break. After said break, I was shunted back into work.

It sucked. I had little time to myself. My body could still feel the echo of those damned water whips.

But the results spoke for themselves.

"Hrm…" Corda hummed, her finger tapping against her chin whilst the other hand was propped beneath her elbow. She was circling me, lethargic and purposeful. "I suppose you have completed my task. A tad slower than I hoped, but…" She shrugged, a rueful smirk taking shape on her admittedly gorgeous face.

I shook. Not out of fear or exhaustion, but with excitement. "Does that mean I can _finally_ learn some magic?"

Slowly, every so slowly, she nodded. "Yes, yes. You've done as I asked, and it is time you find reward for what you have strived for."

With a startlingly quick movement, she grabbed the staff hanging from her shoulder and held it aloft. Its sapphire stone began to hum and glow, and I started to float. Corda moved into the Spire, my body trailing along.

She knew I didn't like being moved like this. I had legs and after this last month, they worked damn well.

But right now, I didn't care. Finally, _finally_ I was going to learn magic. I'd been thinking heavily on the spells I wanted to learn first in this past month, and I had settled on it.

I wanted to learn how to Slow Fall.

It seems like a simple spell, right? You use a feather as a reagent and for a short time, you switch your body weight with the feather. You are light and the feather is heavy. It lasts for only a scant thirty seconds and that's it.

But that was the game mechanic. It was different here. Through the books Corda forced down my throat when I was still trying to learn to read Thalassian, I gained some insight. Many of these books were filled with histories and theories about the origination of Azeroth, but that wasn't all I read. One of those books had been a dossier of the more esoteric magics that were possible through the Arcane. Slow Fall had been one of these spells that were available for perusal, and I learned that there were a few more uses than what the game allowed.

As an example, you could increase the duration of the spell depending on the reagent you used. Those thirty seconds from the game were if you use the feather of a pigeon. Say for example you used a feather from a gryphon instead, or the scale of a dragon? The gryphon feather would roughly last you an hour, and the dragons scale would last you until you touched the ground, theoretically forever if you could stay afloat. And Slow Fall was a passive magic, meaning that once you cast it you didn't need to focus on it, and could cast other spells as you fell.

Slow Fall, with the right reagent and the right secondary spell, could let you fly.

And there was more! Slow Fall could be cast on other people, yes, but it could also be cast on inanimate objects. So, say for example I had one of those dragon scales, and a very heavy item – _an artifact from the Legion expansion for instance_. I could cast the Slow Fall spell on this item, and so long as I never let it touch the ground, it would be as light as a feather.

Now, obviously that kind of item of interest was quite far away. But I did have something that I could Slow Fall right now, something that I very much wanted to be able to make light.

My sun touched satchel.

Vereesa gave me that thing, a bag that had a depth of ten feet (Corda helped me test it by levitating a marked metal pole into the satchel that was fifteen feet long). But the satchel didn't have an enchantment of weightlessness cast on it, so I couldn't put especially heavy things inside it. I had asked Corda to cast the enchantment, but she just scoffed and said I was too young to need such a thing.

But with Slow Fall? Even without the enchantment, I could carry almost anything in the bag so long as I cast the spell on the satchel. I just needed to be careful with how long I had the spell cast and to make sure I had the reagents on me at all times.

So, yeah. Makes sense that I want to learn it, right?

My train of thought was halted when Corda dropped me onto the tiled floor of the Spire kitchens. Why the hell were we here?

"I will not start you off with the Arcane." Corda said, quite bluntly. _But my Slow Fall!_ "Instead, I have a question for you. Which would you rather learn, Frost or Flame?"

Oh, well.

Hrm… There were benefits to learning both. Frost would allow me to manipulate my surroundings more clearly, summoning barricades of ice and glacial towers. Fire would allow me to never be cold, and I could protect myself well with a strong offense.

What to do… What to do…

Well, I won't lie. I already know.

"Flame."

I wanted to be a fire-bender.

Corda nodded shortly. "Then you must trick your mana, the magic that was awakened in your body, to turn to fire. As a mage, we practice three main schools of magic; Frost, Flame and Arcane. Do you know why?"

I blinked. I blinked again. I blinked some more.

…Actually, no. I really don't know what mages use those schools.

As I shook my head, Corda continued. "As I have told you, there is magic in everything. It exists in the grass outside, in the ocean past the cliffs, in the clouds above us, in the stars in the sky and even in the stones of this Spire. All these are of the Arcane. Some might argue that the world is from the school of Life, which Druids and Shamans use, but it has been noted that Life is just a school of the Arcane, similar to the chronomancy I practice. Arcane magic makes up most things, and so a mage, a person who studies everything, naturally studies the Arcane. But Frost and Flame? It seems strange, does it not? To go from the magic of the world to two relatively dull fields in comparison?"

Unconsciously, I nodded. Now that I thought about it, that _did_ seem weird.

She poked me, right in the chest. "The reason we place Frost and Flame as two of our main schools is because they do not come from the world around us, they come _from_ us. These two magics are the most simple types of magic there is, and they are the basis for a mage to learn how to access the Arcane. Your body has a natural temperature it is meant to stay at, but with magic you can alter this temperature and not only can you survive, you can make it your boon."

That- that made a surprising amount of sense. Actually, it made a whole ton of sense. The Arcane was the magic of the whole world, and it wasn't meant to be held by those that were weak willed. Frost and Flame, though?

"How do I use Flame magic?" If I was going to use this magic, I was damn well going to _use_ it.

She smirked once more. This time, it looked almost- mocking? What?

"To use magic from the schools of Frost and Flame, you must surround yourself in their opposite. With Frost, you must surround yourself with Flame, and with Flame, you must surround yourself with Frost. The first users of Flame magic lived in the far north, where the sun rarely graced them and a man could freeze to death in short order. It was necessary. So too was it the same for the first Frost users, who lived in sweltering wastelands with little water and scorching sands. Their mana did what it needed to let them survive, and to access these schools, you must similarly subject yourself to this treatment."

"But my sister," I began, my brow furrowed. It felt weird, sine my eyebrows were quite long and the brushed against one another with the movement. "Vereesa learned how to summon fire when she was stationed at the Isle of Quel'danas."

Corda shrugged. "There are many ways to summon fire, to be perfectly honest. Fire in itself is a natural phenomenon, it is possible to draw it from the air, or force the Arcane to burn. The Flame is the fire from your own body, the warmth that you yourself create." She paused, a devious look on her face. "In fact…"

With a twist of her staff, I found myself floating once more. This time, Corda remained where she was. My eyes widened as I was brought towards the freezer, where we kept our meats and herbs. It was always cold in here, spelled so that it would never warm, and I began to understand.

"Wait- Corda- I'm not-!"

With a jaunty wave and a catlike smirk, she made a show of pushing her hand forward. I was quickly shunted into the freezer, and as I scrambled towards the metal wrought door it shut, locking from the outside.

"You will not leave until you have accessed the Flame." She said from the other side of the door, muffled by the thick layers of iron.

I was stuck.

 _That damned bitch!_

* * *

Time was strange when you were stuck in a windowless, frozen room.

I didn't know how long I was in there. Was it an hour? A few hours? Half a day? A full day? Days? I legitimately had no clue. As they say, time flies when you're having fun.

This was the opposite of fun.

I began to truly feel the cold within those first few minutes. It didn't help that I was still in the plate-mail armor that I'd been running in only a few moments ago. I was quick to strip the gear away, throwing it as far from my person as I could.

Then, I did whatever I could to stay warm.

I ran around the freezer, keeping my blood flowing. I spoke and spoke and spoke, not allowing my mouth to get accustomed to the cold. I did jumping jacks and pushups and whatever I could. But I had run Corda's course just before and was already tired, so my body was quick to protest.

So, I started sifting through the freezer, looking for something - _anything_ \- to help me stay warm. There were a few strips of cow and pig and dear, covered by blankets of coarse cloth. I grabbed every cloth I could and wrapped it around myself, but they weren't very warm at all.

When hunger struck, I ate the herbs and fruits. Raw meat was definitely not on the list of things I wanted, and I would only go for it once I had no choice. Still, the herbs and fruits were frozen, so the moment they touched my tongue by warm body cooled even quicker.

Time was slow, but the cold was quick. Faster than I realized was possible, I was a shivering mess, desperately clinging to the blankets I'd cocooned myself in, my long hair wrapping around my bare arms. They didn't do much, but they were better than nothing.

I closed my eyes, and just- stopped. I could feel my magic, the energy that made up my life, swirling within me, trying to keep me steady and safe.

When I originally awoke from my coma, in which I was aged through Corda's chronomantic expertise, I could see magic in all things. It was blinding and colorful and _everywhere_. But that quickly passed. Now, I could only see the slightest of lights, letting me know that there was magic in only a scant few things. The world was more colorful than it had been before I had my magic, but not nearly as wonderous as it was in those first few moments.

But my magic? It was always apparent. I could feel it in everything I did, leaking with my exhaustion and filling with my interest. It was- how can I even describe it? My magic was my very self, without the superficial issues that made up my physical form. It was my spirit, it was my soul.

I wanted to be warm. My soul wanted to be warm.

And so, my magic wanted to be warm.

It was a slow-going process. My magic would shift and swirl, lethargically changing, but it did indeed adjust itself. Trickles of warmth began to emanate, but the cold was stronger, more potent. The warmth became stronger in turn, constantly trying to fight the cold. My magic struggled with the room, and my body's temperature fluctuated with the struggle of my soul.

The slow process began to quicken, and as I focused my hot magic towards my chilled hands, small sparks of light began to escape my palms. As the warmth became heat and the heat became even hotter, the sparks turned to smoke and the smoke became small embers.

I stared at the embers, the _Flame_ in my hand. It didn't burn, for it was born from me. The cold was- it was not gone, not truly, but the cold was now covered, muted. My magic was hiding it from me, coating my body in heat and warmth and safety. It trickled away, the magic. It left me faster than any exhaustion had made it before, but I had plenty to spare and the grin on my lips was impossible to ignore.

I focused on the new feeling, the feeling of Flame that danced upon my palm. It grew as I poured more of my magic into it, becoming a small pyre of my own self.

I couldn't help it. I laughed. I laughed and laughed _and laughed and laughed_. It was there, right there.

Magic was mine.

I sent my Flame towards one of the frozen slabs of meat, watching in glee as ice was melted and the water it became steamed in a boil, the red, bloody flesh turning pink then tan then black as char made its way. I hadn't even realized how hungry I was. I grabbed the smoking piece of meat and dug in, ignoring how it tasted foul. Foul or not, it wasn't frozen.

I had magic.

.

Corda opened the door an hour or so later, informing me that I'd spent a grand total of twenty hours in the freezer. I was naturally mad, but she told me that there were monitors in the freezer that would have let her know if I had exceeded my limit, and she would have released me then.

My anger fled me quickly at that. She had the proper precautions in place and I had magic. At this point, I was past the point of caring. I was too busy appreciating the dancing flames that raced across my hands.

I did not appreciate it when she stuffed me in the boiler room next, telling me to figure out how to call on the Frost.

* * *

To the south-east of the Spire, in the lands that were forbidden to the elves of Quel'thalas, the forest stirred. Leaves were rustled, stones were lifted, and trees groaned as weight was added to them.

An army was at the gates of the kingdom of the High Elves. Try as the gatekeepers might, they could not put a stop to the force before them. Spell and arrow and weapon meant nothing before the combined might of the Orcs and Ogres and Amani Trolls.

Ranger General Lireesa Windrunner did what she could. She hailed arrow after arrow towards her foes, magically charged with the most potent abilities she had and coated in the deadliest poisons Sylvanas had gifted her. Her gryphon, a black beast with a plumage of green feathers, screeched, diving towards the army with its menacing talons. It felled a few orcs and trolls and even slew an ogre, but the beast was caught and slain by a green skinned orc with vile, Fel magics.

That same green skinned orc, its red eyes burning with unbridled hatred, used its Fel magics to bring Lireesa down from her perch atop the gate. She slammed into the ground, only to be swarmed by the Amani.

She screamed and thrashed and tried to escape, but there was little use. Her screams were cut off as a white-haired troll snapped her neck, his laughter echoing past the gates.

"A strong opponent," said a powerful, grey skinned orc proclaimed, a great hammer strapped to his side. Orgrim Doomhammer, Warchief of the Horde, was slow to praise his fellows and foes. For him to offer such praise to an elf of all things, was worthy of note. "She slowed an army near all her own. Few can boast such a thing."

"Bah!" The troll that slew her spat, ripping her ears off with a vicious snarl. He stuffed one in his mouth, savoring the taste. "Ya don' know what she be doin' ta us, mon. Windrunna… She been a thorn in de sides o' de Amani fer a generation, ya."

"I care not, Zul'jin." Orgrim shrugged, sedately walking through the gate. "You promised your aid so long as we took this land, and I expect our deal to keep."

"Ya, ya." Zul'jin, Warlord of the Amani tribe, waved his hand in understanding, idly stuffing the other ear into his mouth before tossing Lireesa's corpse to the ground. "Amani keep dere deals. We neva forget. De tribe be yours, once de city be ours."

And that was what Orgrim was banking on. The Amani were unlike the other tribes he had seen. Those trolls were thin and lanky, using magic and voodoo and guerrilla techniques. While he had little issue with this, the Amani were another breed entirely. Where those other trolls were thin and wirey, the Amani were hulking and powerful, their limbs eclipsing even the thickest Orcs in Orgrims army. The Amani were a ferocious, blood thirsty peoples, and their leader, Zul'jin, was the most ferocious, the most blood thirsty of them all. And more than that, he was clever, able to hold back his animosity to ensure that his strategies would succeed.

He was an ideal ally. It was luck that the Horde came across his prison, but luck had its place in war, just as strategy and soldiers had theirs.

"Hmph." Orgrim grunted, taking his mind away from his newest allies to behold the world before him. Upon entering the lands of Quel'thalas, he couldn't help but stop, just to marvel. The grass was gold, the bark of the trees were white, and the air was pure. Magic was in this place, more pure than anything he'd seen before, and it melded with the earth and trees in such a way that there was harmony. In a single word, he would call it Ideal.

This was what he hoped for when he left Draenor. Their world was dying, the twisted magics that Ner'zhul commanded saw to that, and they desperately needed a new home. Quel'thalas was the physical embodiment of the path they tred, a land of such splendor that not even Draenor's rugged, wild terrain could compare.

Idly, he caught sight of a strange, powerful structure to the northwest. It was a tower that was visible even past the dense forest that was just in front of him. So tall was the tower that it was able to touch the plentiful clouds overhead. Even when it was miles and miles away, it was apparent.

"Zul'jin." Orgrim called, catching the attention of the manic troll. "What is that?"

Zul'jin followed where the Warchief pointed, and scowled, hatred rolling in his gut. "Be de _Spire_. Home to de Windrunna's…"

A slow, predatory smile overtook the troll's tusked face. With strength greater than one might expect from the Warlord, Zul'jin gripped the corpse of Lireesa Windrunner and with nary a grunt he ripped her head from her shoulders, idly throwing the rest of her corpse towards his kin. The trolls swarmed her, ripping her body apart with a violent fervor, each consuming bits of skin and muscle and guts and bones. It was a sacred right in the Amani tribe that their most hated enemies not be allowed to have their spirits released. Their bodies became sustenance for the tribe, and their spirits were to increase the tribe's own power.

Orgrim raised an eyebrow, "Why behead her?"

Zul'jin cackled, using her long hair to attach the head to his waist. "I jus' 'ad a good idear. We kill de Windrunna modda, be she got some sprogs. Show dem her head? A' wanna see 'em die wit a face o' fear. Ohhhh, et be _glorious_. Oi! Zim'bal! Kara'tu! Kul'krazahn! Daakara!"

With his call, four massive, savage trolls took stage. Each was more massive and savage than the next, with Zim'bal being slightly smaller than Zul'jin and Daakara nearly doubling the Warlord in size. But that mattered little. Orgrim sized them up, and couldn't help but marvel. They were near as large as the Dire Trolls he'd seen the Revantusk tribe employ, without the mental debilitation that those creatures held.

"Wat'chu wan, mon?" Daakara asked, idly chewing on a femur. Of them all, he seemed the most dangerous. While the other trolls were clothed in leathers, with ceremonial totems and widgets hanging from their waists and shoulders, he alone was kitted in full armor. His armor was dark and deadly, like obsidian, whilst his axe gleamed against the light of the overhead sun. Rusted blood was apparent on axe and armor alike.

"We goin' on a detour, ya." Zul'jin stated, gleefully. He pointed towards the Spire, and slowly, the other four trolls found themselves grinning as well. The Warlord looked to Orgrim, and the Warchief of the Horde quickly realized that the Amani was silently asking for permission.

That alone made Orgrim allow such a deed. The Amani were a part of the Horde now, and while Zul'jin may have been their leader, he was Zul'jin's leader. The respect he was just showed proved to the wielder of the Doomhammer that even though his allies were savage, they could follow orders.

"Just be back soon. We need you to rally Zul'Aman."

Such loyalty deserved reward, and this was a reward in which he did nothing. It was, as his old friend Durotan would say, a perfect stroke.

With a cackle, the five trolls raced away, howling as they disappeared through the forest.

* * *

 **A/N: Well… It's been a bit.**

 **I won't even bother with excuses. Honestly, I just kept having knew ideas for this story, and they wouldn't leave. I was seriously considering rewriting the damn thing over ten times with ten different ideas. In one idea, I was going to have my main character be born as a Night Elf during the pinnacle of Azshara's empire, where I was gonna find a way for him to get in her panties. In another, I was going have the MC be a damned Gnoll in Redridge, where he was gonna create a faction between all the filler races of WoW. In another I was going to have him be an albino proto-drake in the time before the Aspects, where he would eventually became the sixth dragon aspect.**

 **I won't even bother listing the others. I just- I had too many ideas and too little interest in this one. But if any of you readers have an interest in taking on one of these ideas, shoot me a PM and I'll go into further detail as to what I intended. If I don't write it, I'd still love to read it.**

 **But I stuck with this story for a reason. I made it with a vague idea of where to go next in mind, and that made all the difference. I have future plans for Tharama, and in the other stories I just had fun idea's. There was little continuation of the plot, no plans for what would happen after. The story would have been abandoned or rewritten** ** _again_** **.**

 **So, I came back to this. Legitimately, I went out today, voted for who was gonna do their dues in Florida, then used my I Voted sticker to get a free coffee and hunkered down in a coffee shop for about 5 hours to just blitz this thing. And I like to think it turned out pretty well. And I finally am able to get through this bit. Next chapter, I hope to either end the Quel'thalas Arc, or bring it to its finale.**

 **And here we are! Finally, we've got an update. In this, we go over some of the details of what makes an elf an elf, and further, we get to explore some details of magic. And, while Tharama is in his own little world, tragedy has struck. His mother, brutally murdered by the main forces of the Second War, and a group of Trolls, the strongest in the Amani army, make their way to Windrunner Spire, intent on setting the place on fire.**

 **Everything Tharama feared is happening, and he doesn't even know it.**

 **If you liked this, please Favorite/Follow this story and don't forget to give it a Review!**


	6. Shedding Skin

Absentmindedly, Glori'il Embermyst tucked a strand of her sea-green hair behind the crook of her left ear, her focus on the task before her. It was a monumental task indeed, but few could claim that she, a priestess of the Holy Light and caretaker of the Windrunner clan, was not up to the challenge.

Sat at a veranda in front of the Spire, she hunkered down with a cup of tea and a plate of fruits, a pair of ink wells and spare quill at the ready; the quill she was currently using was moving at speeds faster than she'd ever moved one before.

Before her lay her greatest foe.

Paperwork.

With all of the Windrunners gone and most of the household similarly missing, it was up to Glori'il as the highest ranking servant remaining to take care of not only her normal duties, such as cleaning and cooking and caring for her young charge, but also to take care of the duties that normally would have fallen on a seneschal had the pair of them not been swiped by Alleria and Sylvanas respectively. One was to scribe the events of the Second War in Alleria's campaign, whilst the other was meant to be young Lirath's tutor.

Glori'il did not care for this task, were it not obvious enough for others to interpret.

But still, while she did not care for her newfound duties, she was not horribly against this task. Indeed, the added forms may have aggravated her at first, but now she only felt a vague sense of annoyance and dissonance with the subject.

This was because she gained a new duty and lost one in turn.

Tharama.

It was confusing at first, when Corda first came to the Spire. She was like a whirlwind, her expectations high and her will unbending. She ordered the staff around as if they were children and punished those accordingly when they did not meet her expectations. Her standards were ridiculous, and she settled for little more than perfection.

Was it a wonder that Glori'il despised her?

Corda not only disturbed the happy, if dull, life that Glori'il had made for herself, she'd also nearly killed young Tharama. Forcefully awakening his magic at such a tender age was well known to be a horribly poor choice. That the boy was then put into a coma so that his immense mana pool wouldn't kill him was… Glori'il didn't have the words, but she remembered. She remembered staying by the young master's side, nearly spending the whole of her own magic to keep his body hale as he was aged far quicker than he was meant to be. His bones and muscles and organs stretched faster than they were meant to, and if not for her healing he would have likely passed on due to blood loss.

She had, at that time, desperately wished for things to go back to what they once were. When the twins were together, when the Windrunners as a whole were together. Alleria would dote on Lirath and Vereesa on Tharama, Sylvanas looking on from afar with a fond smile whilst Lireesa tried to engage her youngest children. Lirath would always take her up on playing games and singing songs, whilst Tharama would constantly insist on being read to, uncaring on if they were reading a story book or a set of work ledgers. Times were easier then, times were better.

When he awoke from his coma three months later, Glori'il was overjoyed. Regardless of his unnatural aging, things might return to how they were. Corda was soon to be dismissed for her horrible negligence, and life could return anew.

But no, Tharama had different plans. The boy believed she owed him a debt and wanted an _apprenticeship!_

Unconsciously, without even realizing what she'd done, the quill in her hand snapped and ink blotted the document she'd been working on. Glori'il started, sighing as she looked upon the damage she'd done.

"I'll have to start over again," she murmured, quite cross. With a huff, Glori'il took a deep, calming breath, trying to steady herself. She grabbed a new quill and a new piece of parchment and did her best to copy the information that wasn't ruined.

Tharama was as willful, as painfully stubborn as all his sisters. Lirath was always such a sweet boy, listening to his elders and taking a keen interest in music.

Tharama could be sweet, though only at certain times. He would only listen to those he believed could help him further. Corda was the woman who could help him the most in his interests, that of magic and that of the world, and so even when he was battered and bruised and she was to blame for his looking more than twice his actual age, he still listened to her.

He listened to her when she made him run harder than he would ever need to at his age. Listened to her when she sicced Water Elementals after him with the intent to harm. Listened to her when she stuffed him in a freezer so cold that it caused his magic to twist into the school of Flame.

And now that he'd succeeded in that, she stuffed him into the boiler room and expected him to access the school of Frost.

Yes, Glori'il hated Corda. But when she tried to make her stop, Corda would give this... this _look_. Nothing Glori'il did to stop her succeeded, and even in an attempt to be physical, she failed miserably. Though she did not look it, Corda had strength that matched her capability. Without issue, she had brought Glori'il's attempt to stop her to a quick, decisive halt, and bluntly stated that should such an altercation ever happen again, that Glori'il would find herself so bogged down with duties that she'd never see Tharama again.

There was no point in denying her vitriol. With every fiber of her being, Glori'il despised the woman.

The wind seemed to echo her mood, for it gave a suddenly harsh and violent burst of movement, scattering her documents about. With a groan, Glori'il got up from her seat, bent down and began to pick up her fallen details.

At least it was a pretty day out.

With all materials in hand, she stood once more. The wind was silent now, eerily quiet from the torrent she'd just felt before.

Curious, she looked about. There was little different than what should have been. The stone was still wrought with white marble, the skyline bluer than her own eyes, the trees lined with gold and the leaves with red and green and-

 _Wait_.

In these lands, the trees were in a constant state of autumn, their leaves always either red or yellow, looking as if they were ready to fall at any moment but would never do such a thing.

There was no green.

She looked at the green, and the felt despair. That- that was skin. Looking closer, for she hadn't been taking in the scenery at all whilst going over her documents, she saw them for what they were.

Their skin looked to hold tufts of moss and was mainly uncovered. There were five of them in total, large, brutish trolls, wielding axes and swords and maces. One of them was armored to the teeth, and how did she not notice such a monster? They fell from the trees, their forms becoming entirely visible. This group of trolls, they made up everything that Glori'il feared.

Trolls were dangerous. Not only were they physically capable, they could also commune with animal spirits known as Loa for boons of tremendous power and were known to regenerate entire limbs should the limb in question not be cauterized. Fire was their greatest weakness, their greatest fear.

Glori'il did not know any spells involving fire. She was a healer, not a combatant.

These trolls though, they were unlike the few that Glori'il had seen. The Farstriders considered it their duty to control the populations of the forest trolls, and Glori'il had seen an execution before. That troll had been starved, emaciated and frail, but even in its fragility it was frightening. These trolls though, they could not be called weak. They were massive, their muscles twisting with every movement. They were far larger than the one she'd seen. By the Sun, one of them looked to be nearly three meters tall.

She backed away, only for the trolls to laugh loudly and charge. With reason gone, she ran inside of the Spire, her documents forgotten, slicing her palm with her sharpened nails. She slapped her now bloodied hand on one of the columns of the building, delighting as it lit up in a rainbow of colors. A wall of Arcane began to fall, the wards of the Spire coming to life.

The wards fully formed just before the trolls reached the Spire. They beat on the wall viciously, almost looking to break through. But that was impossible, the wards were strong enough to hold back hundreds of them, let alone five. Glori'il breathed out a sigh of relief, her heart beating erratically.

Then, the white haired troll, whose red eyes gleamed with a madness unlike any Glori'il had ever seen, stopped beating on the ward, staring at the column where her blood lay. He laughed and laughed, and touched the pillar that Glori'il slapped her blood upon. He grabbed at his back, and pulled out a severed head, its ears missing but that face was undeniable.

She choked as Lireesa Windrunners head, her face stuck in the position of pure panic, was held before her. Bile rose up, and Glori'il did nothing to stop the torrent from escaping her mouth.

The troll dug his disgusting fingers up Lireesa's neck, withdrawing them only for blood to pool. With a sinister look, he rolled his fingers over the columns of the Spire.

The Spire's wards were made with the intent to withstand a siege. Their goal was to allow the Windrunner clan ultimate sanctuary, and their servants were granted the same rights. The reason Glori'il had been allowed to even access the wards was because Sylvanas had keyed her blood into the heartstone that anchored them to the Spire. But the blood of a Windrunner would supersede her access to the wards without fail.

Even when it was the blood of a dead Windrunner. The original Windrunners of Quel'thalas, while powerful and deserving of their bouts of hubris, were arrogant, just as the rest of their elven kin were. They believed that they could not be defeated, that they would never be invaded, and so they did not specify that the blood of the dead would be able to lift their wards, for they believed that they would live eternally.

And now, their arrogant institution of self-importance led to the fall of their home.

The wards fell with the action of the troll before her, and the despair Glori'il felt only moments ago returned with an unholy vengeance. She quickly casted every shield she could upon herself, drawing forth the Light and even the scheming magic's of the Void in an effort to keep the brutes away.

Her efforts proved to only slow them, marginally at best. The white-haired troll simply walked past her, whilst the other four took their turns beating against her shields, taking her paltry curses with pained grunts and cruel cackles.

When her shield fell, so did Glori'il. With her death, alarms went off throughout the Spire.

Enemies had broken through.

* * *

I admit, after figuring out how to access the Flame, Frost was quite simple. Once I did it once, I could do it again.

And I did. It didn't even take that long. I don't know how long I was stuck in this swelteringly hot room, but I had Frost in my hand. Sure, I couldn't do much with it aside from juggle some ice cubes that melted quicker than average, once again due to the fact that I was in a _boiler room_ , but hey. Progress.

So, it came to a natural a surprise when alarms began to ring through the room.

Corda opened the door to the boiler room with a bang, her normally stoic face lined with great worry.

"Get up, GET UP! _OUT!_ " She screamed, and I hastily did as she told. She ushered me out and pushed and pushed at me until I was running.

"What the hell's going on?!" I asked her, loudly.

"The Spire is being invaded," she stated, her slit pupils wide and dilated. I felt myself go colder than the Frost I now controlled. "Who is invading, I don't know. They could be assassins, or trolls from Zul'Aman, or even the Horde itself. It doesn't matter. It's happening and we need to _leave_."

She pushed me towards a little hole in the kitchen wall, with a small pully system that went up and down. This was a little chute that was normally used by my mother when she was stuck in her office, with dignitaries and forms and whatever other nonsense she had to deal with that didn't allow her to leave the room. It was used to by the kitchen staff to bring food and drinks and whatever other things she needed directly to her quarters.

I was summarily shunted inside.

"Go to your room and grab all the supplies you need," Corda said, her eyes shifting about as she gripped her staff, its sapphire shining brightly. She fiddled with the controls on the wall a for a little bit, and with a quiet little beep they began to close.

"What about you?" I asked, the door halfway closed at this point. Even if I didn't really like her as a person, she'd done a lot for me. She awakened my magic, aged me up so that I could survive better (unintentional though it was), and even showed me how to use Frost and Flame. Corda may have been a bitch, but she'd done right by me for the most part.

"I'll keep watch of things down here," she assured me. "When you have everything you need, go to Alleria's room and open the far window. There's a latch to the side of it that, unlock it and you'll understand!" She finished, just as the door closed.

I sat stunned as the chute began to quickly lift, hearing the strain that the metal ropes were undertaking. I was a lot heavier than what this thing was designed for, but it still did what it needed to do.

How in the hell did this happen? It's been what, eight months since the Second War began? More? I thought that I had more time, thought that I would be able to get out of dodge before Quel'thalas was even affected.

Clearly, I was wrong.

The chute came to a stop, and the door behind me opened up. I fell backwards, though thankfully I was able to right myself before smashing my head.

I looked around wildly, noting that nothing seemed out of place in my mothers quarters. With the threat of a legitimate attack to my person, I didn't feel anything wrong with borrowing from the room. I walked up to the wall and grabbed a pair of weapons that were hung together, along with the shoulder straps that lay behind them. They were steel short-swords, each wielding different enchants. One held the ability to burn a foe, whilst the other could absorb fire. Theoretically, when working in tandem and in the right hands, an enemy would burn to death and then once the foe was finished the fire would be absorbed, causing as little damage as possible to the environment around.

I was not the right person for these swords. I could lift them well enough, but my swing was slow, and I had never trained with a weapon. But I needed _something_.

I strapped them to my back and then ran to my room. I didn't need to grab anything of real value, luckily enough. All that was needed was my sun touched satchel. I did, however, stuff a book that lay on my desk into the bag. It was that tome filled with esoteric magics. It didn't hurt to have.

When I opened the bag to place the book inside, a sound echoed from within. Curious and more than a little frightful, I grabbed at the sound. Pulling it out, I was face to face with a kitten, who hissed wildly at me.

I… I forgot I did that. Vereesa said that if I wanted to see the limits of the bag, I should stuff something living inside of it. I did that after Corda helped me test the depth of the item, and must have completely forgotten about it in the aftermath of my coma. The kitten didn't look any older, but I put it in the bag at least five months ago. It should have been a cat by now.

So, my bag could hold living things and not kill them. It put them into stasis instead.

Neat.

But that _really doesn't matter right now_.

I bolted out of my room and entered Alleria's. I looked around, and saw the window Corda mentioned. It was square, with a latch at the bottom and a latch at the side. I knew that the latch at the bottom was what opened the window, but what did the side do?

Well, no time like the present to find out. I was- ah, in a bit of a rush, y'know?

I hit the latch and winced as it pricked my finger. Ow. I watched as, just after my blood touched the sill, a construct of magic took shape. It took on the form of a thick line, going from Alleria's window to the edge of the cliff outside. Further, a small zipline was also created, constructed to hold a body and bring it down the line.

I understood then. I might hurt myself, but it was better than being dead. But in a moment of bafflement, I couldn't help but gawk. Why the hell would the hidden escape in my sisters room be a damn zipline? There were portals and objects that could fly, for crying out loud! There was so much potential and _this_ was what I had to settle with?

The breath that escaped me was quickly returned, and my moment of confusion left. Whatever. I was begging for an escape and beggers can't be choosers, especially when there was no other choice.

Quickly, I unlatched the bottom portion of the window. Upon lifting it, I made sure both the swords were secured on my back and my satchel was tight around my waist. Once they were, I grabbed the handle to the line, and with a muttered prayer to whoever could hear my, I jumped.

The moment I jumped, however, was also the moment glass broke. I craned my neck, only to see a window from the floor just below where I'd jumped broke, a beastly looking troll on its ledge with bright red hair and a blunt mace in hand. We looked at each other for just a moment, violet eyes meeting brown, and with a grin he squatted down and _pushed_ , soaring from his window towards me. I kicked and kicked, but that didn't deter him. Instead, he grabbed my kicking, holding onto me with a grip that was so tight my ankle popped out of its socket.

" _Ah! Hahaha!_ " It laughed. The troll then announced something in his native tongue of Zandali, a language I definitely didn't know. The only thing I could really get was the repeated word of Zim'bal, which was likely his name. Regardless, the added weight of Zim'bal with my own weaker grip strength and my now fucked up ankle caused me to let go of the zipline at the halfway point.

I rolled around in the air, trying desperately to get him off of me. He didn't stop, instead taking great pleasure in delivering wicked strikes with his mace to my body. I could feel the horrible pain of my legs breaking, of my ribs cracking, of my organs rupturing. When we hit the ground, Zim'bal was the first to land, back first. Both of us spat blood, me more than him since I had the most damage, but I was so fucking _mad_.

My life hadn't necessarily been perfect, but it had been great. Over four years of bliss, and these fuckers ruin it in a single moment?

I grabbed one of the swords attached to my back, and while Zim'bal was getting up, stabbed him in the throat. His blood welled, and he thrashed about, but I held firm, and he soon stopped moving.

I'd just- I just killed somebody. He may have bee brutal and horrible and I was about to die to boot, but I just _killed somebody_.

Why did I feel nothing?

"Whatever," I muttered, dropping the sword and using my hands to crawl away. I didn't know what exactly Corda wanted me to do, but she had a plan and I was sticking to it. That was my best chance for survival.

I crawled, slowly and painfully. Everything that touched my leg, every move I made, was like lightning. It shot through my body, making me grunt and moan in the worst of ways.

More noise echoed from behind me. A wail of despair and hatred washed through the field, but I didn't look. I needed to reach my destination.

Then, my head was lifted by my hair and I screamed. I could feel my roots rip from my scalp, blood slowly but surely flowing from my brow.

The troll that lifted me was white haired, with a purple face mask and red eyes. This one- this one I knew. He was one of the villains of the Burning Crusade. Zul'jin, the Warlord of the Amani. The final raid boss of the Zul'Aman instance.

"Ya' tink ya can get aweh, lil' Windrunna?" He asked, in startlingly clear Thalassian. He must have learned the language from an elven slave. "Ya kill me boi, Zim'bal. 'e been a good one, strong 'n all. Ya kill 'im though. Mean ya strong too, gon' get even stronga'."

He shook me, and I couldn't help but whimper. That made him laugh even louder. He then held something up to me, also held by hair.

"Maybe," he said conversationally as the head rolled towards me. "Maybe strong as ya modda, un?"

How do you describe this feeling? How could I possibly describe it? Seeing my mothers face so close to mine, lopped from her body and fixed in fear?

Lireesa Windrunner may not have been the person that taught me to be who I was, but she was my mother all the same. She did what she could, allowed me to indulge in my interests, and treated me as if I could carry the world on my shoulders. She was everything I could have hoped for in a mother, and she was just- _there_.

I screamed at Zul'jin, cursing him in every way I could. I tried to reach for my other sword, but he shifted his grip on my hair to grab my wrist, clicking his tongue in amused irritation. If my legs worked, I would have kicked him.

He laughed at my rage, as if I were but a mouse before him. With a shrug of his shoulders, he dropped mother's head and held the three fingers of his free hand up to my face. Those fingers, the nails were long and black and sharp, almost claw-like.

"A' wonda…" he said, idly bringing those clawed nails down against my face. He raked them downwards, drawing blood easily. "Do ya ears taste as good as 'ers do?"

He moved his hand from my face and gripped my left ear, ripping the top half of it off. I bellowed, hysterical as he stuffed the thing into his mouth, chewing with a raised brow. He smiled as he swallowed and made for the other ear.

But he was stopped. A blue light surrounded him, and he was thrown to the far cliff, letting go of me in the process. I toppled down to the ground, panting. A hurried set of footsteps echoed towards me, and I barely was able to muster the strength to look up. Corda was there, looking more worried than I'd ever seen her, almost close to tears. That wasn't right, she never looked that way.

Why was my vision going blurry?

* * *

Corda had never known how express emotion properly. She always hid what she was feeling behind a mask of apathy and scorn. Life was easier when that was all she had to do.

But looking at her charge? Beaten and broken, his legs a mess and his body mangled, those marks on his face likely going to scar and part of an ear missing? She was feeling so many emotions at this moment, it was hard to name them all. Fear, concern, hatred- those were the primary ones. Then there was a desire for vengeance, the need to have Tharama healed up, and a desire to flee from this mess.

A mess that she'd known was going to happen.

"What're ya doin, girlie?" One of the remaining trolls asked in Zandali. He was large, as were they all, and approaching with an axe in hand. "Bah, don't matta'. Know that Kara'tu be the one ta kill ya."

Corda didn't even offer a reply, merely summoning a ball of fire, colored a dark red to signify her rage, and sent it hurtling towards the troll. He yelped as it hit, crying his despair until there was nothing left to despair about as death encompassed him.

The other trolls were abounding. The one she'd tossed over the cliff, their leader, had climbed back up. She hadn't thrown him hard enough, it seemed. Another, armored troll with a great big sword, was making his way towards her. The last one was thicker than a bolder, approaching from the far side of the Spire. In this position, they surrounded her and Tharama.

She'd known about this moment for well over a century, since she'd entered the second year of her life. Corda had not been looking forward to it, but she knew that this was to happen. Perhaps not in this light, but she'd known it would occur. Eventually. This scenario, now that she was physically here, was one that haunted her nightmares.

This was the moment of her death.

And now that she was here, she let go of her pretenses. Her elven form, meticulously created to afford her the best that there was, was stripped. In its place, a creature appeared. Its torso and arms were humanoid, though scaled and wrought in cloth coverings, while its lower body held four legs and a tail, and its head was that of a reptile. Gleaming scales of golden bronze shone, and it bellowed.

Corda Dormamu had been replaced by Cordormi, a dragonspawn of the Bronze Dragonflight.

She flexed her body, marveling in the texture. It had been decades since Cordormi had last seen her scales, so ashamed was she of her form. When she was a whelp, she hoped to become a true dragon, to soar with Soridormi and bare a brood for Nozdormu, but fate was a cruel mistress. The Bronze Dragonflight had a tradition of showing whelps their death, so that they might prepare accordingly. In her death, she was a dragonspawn, boxed in by a trio of trolls in the lands of Quel'thalas. No more details were given, and Cordormi asked for none.

Instead, she was taken to be adjusted. Her death showed that she was a dragonspawn, and so she was turned into one. He body was magically altered by her own kin, turning her into something that would never be what she wished to become. With this transformation, she lost the ability to fly, lost the ability to mate. She became barren, and her wings were turned into a second pair of legs.

In the wake of this, Cordormi felt rage, and so she had one of their mortal Watchers create a portal, to bring her far away. They sent her to Lordaeron, where she later took on the guise of Corda Dormamu and then made for Falthrien Academy. The magisters accepted her with open arms, for it was rare indeed for anybody to know of chronomancy. Cordormi's knowledge of her dragonflights craft was fledgeling at best, in all honesty. She was still considered a whelp to them, even after living for more than a century-and-a-half, and they only taught the true magics to _proper_ dragons. Dragonspawn were guards and fodder and nannies to hatchlings, not keepers of the timeways. Her limited abilities within the spectrum of chronomancy only let her see what _might_ occur to those she had physically met and adjust the age of a singular item or person, but that was it. She could not halt time at a whim. She could not empower herself or others with the strength they would attain at a later date. She could not travel to the future, nor could she travel to the past. In this regard, few could see her as a true member of the Bronze Dragonflight.

Due to this, Cordormi took to studying the Arcane with great dedication, hoping to make up for where she was lacking. There were many elves and even humans that outstripped her abilities, but she did not mind. She just wanted to escape her fate, to find a way to not die in the way that she had been shown without succumbing to the Infinite. One attempt to do this led her to be discovered by Lireesa Windrunner, who then aided her and kept her secret in exchange for a favor in the future. Cordormi looked to what might be and found that there were few scenario's in which this favor would be issue, so she accepted.

What a fool she was.

The favor had been to look over Tharama Windrunner. When Cordormi had known Lireesa, she'd seen what might be. Visions of the many possible futures that could have happened to Lireesa and the Windrunner clan were clear to her; the ones in which Lireesa had twins were both the best and the worst. Most of the time, Lireesa would only give birth to Lirath, but in the event that she had Tharama as well, it was common that both twins would die young. In some, one would survive, being taken to Silvermoon whilst the other would stay behind in the area that would later be called the Ghostlands. In most of these possible timelines, Lireesa would pass away before she could see what would become of the twins, but in the few that she survived, in what _might_ be, Cordormi knew more than many.

Whenever Lirath left for Silvermoon, he would find himself apprenticed to Sylvanas, and then Halduron Brightwing years later, the eventual Ranger-General of Quel'thalas. The Blood Elves would use Lirath as a symbol, and the boy would often become bigheaded enough to allow it. Whenever Tharama left for Silvermoon, he would hole himself up in the Magisters Terrace, and find himself slain and raised by the forces of the Undead, becoming a Death Knight later reviled by the Kirin Tor for slaying his own sister, Vereesa.

It was only in the futures in which both twins survived, that truly great things happened. They went separate paths, and rarely saw one another, but their being alive brought wondrous things. Horrible futures of invasion and war and death on a scale that could not be compared had the chance to be thwarted, and that was a chance that this world _needed_.

However, in none of these futures did Cordormi see herself taking part. And so, though she was worried for her future and quite cross with Lireesa, Cordormi did as she was bade. Debts were meant to be followed through, and even when she did not wish to take part, she did what was needed.

Tharama, as it turned out, was different than what she knew. He was… he was a blur. Now that she was here, physically in his presence, she could see him for what he was. He was an anomaly, something that was invisible to the watchers of time; his actions unbidden and able to distort the timeline unimpeded. She could not see his future, could not see what might be or would be. Normally speaking, the Bronze Flight quietly took care of these anomalies, for their duty was to look over all things in time and there was no room for blindness, but Cordomi did not do this.

Just because she could not see this iteration of Tharama's future did not mean he was a danger to the world, nor did it mean he was unlike what she knew he was able to be. He was a child! Even though he was different to what she knew, he still loved to study and enjoyed all aspects of learning, though Cordormi privately admitted to having never seen a version of him that was so singularly focused. His desire to learn everything was genuinely astounding, and without realizing it, Cordormi began to treat him like one of her students at the academy, the youngest of whom was a more than a decade his senior.

Then she gave him water from the Sunwell, and realized she'd been caught up in her own idiocy.

Were it not for her ability to manipulate time, minor though it was, and Glori'il's use of healing spells, Tharama would have died. What would have happened should that occur- Cordormi shuddered. She could see it. Lireesa would tell her remaining children of what Cordormi was with absolute scorn. The Bronze Flight would be hunted by the Windrunner family for her hubris, held in the same light of hatred that the Horde was. While the Windrunners would lose such a battle, they played an important role in the future of Azeroth, and so, in truth, everybody would lose.

That was when she realized the mistakes she'd made, and decided to not only help Tharama, but to bring out the best in him. If doing this made it so he wouldn't die, she would do that and more. His asking to become her apprentice was annoying at first, especially when he claimed there was a debt, but it mattered little. She had already made this decision, and so she silently accepted. She was even looking forward to it, strange as it seemed.

Tharama turned out to be a diligent apprentice; he worked hard and allowed little to hold him back. Cordormi could have asked for nothing more, but she still did, and he exceeded even that expectation.

Her initial intention had been to bring him to Falthrien once he learned a spell the schools of Frost, Flame and Arcane. Already, he'd learned to summon Frost and Flame, and all that was left was to show him how to turn the world around him into the Arcane. Once he learned to harness the Arcane, she would show him to the magisters, and begin his proper training.

But then… Then the alarms went off.

She did what was needed, what she knew Lireesa would have expected of her. She sent Tharama off to gather his things so that they could escape. Her flying carpet had enough magic left in it to bring them to Silvermoon if need be. He would be safe. _They_ would be safe.

But then... Cordormi saw them. Right there, were the trolls from her nightmares. The ones that killed her.

Was this it then? The moment of her death? Paralyzed with fear and uncertainty, she had hidden herself with an Invisibility spell. During this time, her fear and indecision brought ruin. The guards that were keeping watch of the Spire were slaughtered to the last man, the servants torn apart by rag-dolls, and still she did not move. Cordormi only snapped out of her panicked state upon hearing Tharama's scream, and her fear of that being his end overcame her fear of her death.

She removed her spell and raced to him, finding her apprentice held in the grip of one of the trolls she'd feared so greatly. Fear though... she was not thinking of her nightmares in this moment. Cordormi felt a rage the likes of which she'd never known before, not even when she had been transformed into a dragonspawn had she been this angered.

Which brought her to the here and now.

Twirling her staff, Cordormi levitated Tharama's unconscious body and stuffed him into his satchel, closing the zipper in the process. Quicker than the stunned trolls could react, she acted. She ripped a handful of scales from her belly and stuffed them into the satchel, sacrificing a few of them without incantation for a Slow Fall that was targeted at the bag. Then she pushed a massive portion of her remaining mana into one more spell, as much as she could without the risk of death. This spell shot the satchel far, _far_ into the air, so high and so quickly that it was able to punch a hole in the clouds above. With her enhanced vision, courtesy of her being a dragonspawn, she could see the satchel lose the slightest bit of momentum, careening towards the ocean. She knew that there would be nobody that could touch Tharama now.

What she did would have been suicide for most. The ocean was fraught with perils and creatures that would take that satchel without issue. It was likely that he wouldn't survive. But, she had hope. Tharama had a future, he could do _more_. There was nothing else she could have done. To summon a portal would have taken time and reagents that she didn't have at the moment, and she couldn't fight whilst guarding Tharama.

This would be a trial, one that he would succeed at. Tharama would survive. Cordormi truly believed this to be the case.

" _Well_ ," the white haired troll hummed, eyeing the air that she'd thrown Tharama. His stunned stupor at her quick actions had decidedly left him now. "Dat ain't go 'ow a' wanted. A' wanted ta add anotha' Windrunna ta me collection."

Unconsciously, she looked to this trolls future. This was Zul'jin, Warlord of the Amani, a troll of such ferocity and cunning that he was able to rally others of his tribe and enslave the very Loa that his people worshiped. To control the power of gods... His futures were nothing but carnage. He slew everything without repentance, and in none did he live long, but his role was not as a hero. He was a villain, one that was meant to help the races of this world unite towards a common goal, whose actions had the possibility of creating a peace that could last for generations to come.

"Fuck dat, boss." The armored troll scoffed, eyeing her intently. She eyed him with a similar amount of intent, if not more, his future becoming clear. Daakara, the troll that would take Zul'jin's place as Warlord of the Amani tribe, bending the knee to the Zandalari prophet Zul in an effort to bring the world back under the total control of the trolls. He thought himself a leader, but in truth he only shone when in the role of a servant. "What be an elf ta _dis_ _?_ A dragon, ya!"

"I'm no true dragon," Cordormi growled, holding her staff like a spear. Her mana pools were lower than she would have liked, courtesy of sending Tharama away, but they were not so low that she could not partake in combat. Idly, she bent down and grabbed the sword her young apprentice had used to kill the other troll, shortly observing the enchantment upon it. Useful. "But you should fear me, regardless."

"Feh," the boulder of a troll snorted. "A' gonna skin ya and use ya fer a loin clot'." He was Kul'krazhan, a champion of the Amani. In most futures, he did little. In some, he would die as a soldier in Zul'jin's crusade against the high elves. In others, he would live and claw his way towards being the envoy sent by the Amani tribe to the island kingdom of Zuldazar, where the Zandalari Empire resided. His deeds were little, though his barbarism and willingness to commit acts of horrible violence were numerous

Regardless, Cordormi believed she would be victorious. True, these trolls were dangerous and vicious, but they were nothing more than strong animals. Her muscles were enhanced with the blood of Nozdormu, who was himself enhanced by a Titan. Her magic was greater than they could comprehend.

This would not be her death. She would prove her nightmares to be just that; nightmares.

Then... then they changed. Daakara roared a single word, so loud was this roar that it echoed all throughout the Spire. _Nalorakk_ , he said. One of the Loa of the Amani pantheon, renowned by the trolls as the aspect of Strength. As if called, the spirit of a bear, thrice as large as Cordormi herself was, appeared behind the brute. The translucent Bear saw her, and with a short nod of its massive head, Daakara shifted. He took on the visage of the Bear before her, and she could feel a magic unlike anything she'd ever known fill him. His danger grew exponentially in that moment.

She looked at the other two trolls. Both of them, similar to Daakara, had transformed. Kul'krazhan had donned the visage of a Dragonhawk, his body coated in flames so hot they seemed greater than what a Red might be able to produce, the spirit of Jan'alai circling overhead. Zul'jin had taken on the form of a Lynx, every movement he made looking both false and true all the same, confusing her senses. Behind him sat the great Lynx, Halazzi, who eyed her keenly with a drooling maw.

There was nothing else to say. The trolls, empowered by the spirits of their Loa masters, charged at her, and Corda roared, her magic twisting as they met in the field. Her roar vibrated the area, and the overhead birds scattered away when the sounds of their combat filled the land.

They returned later on in the day, only to see the troll that had taken the form of a dragonhawk dead, his fires having torched the entirety of the Spire, including the remaining corpses of the other trolls, whilst the remaining two trolls dragged the carcass of their Bronze foe back towards the army waiting at the gates of Quel'thalas. When the fires died, they did as their instincts bade them and they devoured the unburnt remains of the bodies that lay still.

* * *

Months passed slowly, but nothing truly changed. With the rest of the Amani trolls now rallied, Orgrim and Zul'jin mounted an assault on Quel'thalas, which was held off by every man, woman and child that was available, and met with fire and fury.

Whilst this happened, Alleria Windrunner quietly led a retinue of the Alliance towards Silvermoon, where their combined might was able to push the Horde all the way to the shores of Hillsbrad. Her lieutenant and sister, Vereesa, had been given a separate mission that brought her further into the human lands. Alleria reunited with her siblings Sylvanas and Lirath, but was filled with worry for her youngest brother, Tharama.

With the Horde pushed back, the trio made their way back to their home. The Spire was a wreck, its once gleaming white stones were blackened with soot, the gardens and tranquil forests surrounding the structure having been put to the torch. They searched and searched but found no sign of Tharama, only the burnt corpses of green skinned hulks, though the bodies were so ruined that they could not tell whether or not they were trolls or orcs. It was concluded, however much they wish it were not true, that he was dead. Worse, they found the head of their mother spiked against the cliff-face.

Sylvanas and Lirath held one another and returned to Silvermoon in mourning, whilst Alleria found comfort in the bed of her paladin friend, Turalyon. Ultimately, however, she chose to dedicate herself to revenge against the Horde, who she was then only able to see as vermin needing to be exterminated. Her wroth knew little bounds, and the only thing that settled her was the realization of her pregnancy, courtesy of Turalyon.

Upon giving birth to her son, a half-elf that was named Arator, Alleria knew what she had to do. She had spent those months in contemplation, and ultimately realized that while her hatred for the Horde had settled to a more tolerable level, she could not let her vengeance go. She gave Arator to the Silver Hand to foster, and was later known to be one of the most influential reasons as to why the Second War came to a close. However, Alleria and a retinue of soldiers, including her human lover Turalyon, were lost in the broken realm of Outlands in the aftermath of this war.

Before she was lost however, Alleria broke apart her prized necklace which had been given to her by her mother. In this necklace were three stones, a ruby, emerald and sapphire that were wrought in a gold pendant. She kept the emerald and sent the sapphire to Vereesa whilst the ruby went to Sylvanas and the gold that held them was sent to Lirath.

Upon receiving these gifts, the remaining Windrunners had varied reactions. Vereesa, having lost the sister she looked up to and the brother she loved more than she could explain, went into a depression. This depression was only lifted by a human mage named Rhonin Redhair, who, after having an adventure with that involved the Red Dragonflight, became her husband.

Lirath and Sylvanas, however, were of a different sort. Sylvanas was stoic, and was able to put her grief behind her in the wake of her new duties. She threw herself into her duties, and ignored the boiling rage that had made its home in her core. Lirath handled his own grief in a decidedly more physical way. He felt that the reason his mother and twin died was because they were not strong enough to live, and so he begged his sister to train him, to which she agreed. Thus, Lirath Windrunner became the apprentice to Sylvanas Windrunner, the newly pronounced Ranger-General of Silvermoon.

Tharama was never forgotten by his family. His life was simultaneously celebrated and mourned, and his passing was used to bolster their own lives. He was a reminder of what once was, and what might have been.

* * *

I awoke with a groan. It was dark in here, though I could see some signs of civilization. There were wooden crates in this room, a room decorated only by the bed I was lain on and some stone floors accented by red columns. Looking up, I saw that the roof was made of green tiles. At my side was my bag, and by my bag was the sword I snatched from mothers room.

Mother… No. I would think about her later; mourn for her at another time. Right now, I needed to figure out where the hell I was.

…Why did this place seem familiar?

Whatever, it was time to move. Wherever I was, it was possible that the trolls were still around. Upon attempting to move, my legs jolted as if on fire and I felt _pain_.

I hissed loudly, knocking my sword over in an unbidden flail. Pulling my bedsheet away with a flourish, I saw the damage that was my body. Both of my legs were covered in thick casts, my chest wrapped in gauze. Stiff was such a weak term to define how I was, but dammit I was stiff.

At least I could move my head and arms.

Actually, I could hear something. A loud pitter patter echoed, as if a large person was going up a flight of stairs towards me. Now that I think about it, that probably was the case.

I got a good look at the person that caused that pitter patter, and- Uh. Hrm…

Well, I can't say I expected that.

It was massively tall, though not as large as those trolls were, with a round belly and laugh lines on its black and white muzzle. It probably stood over seven feet tall, with fur covering the entirety of its body. Sharp green eyes sparkled as a fanged smiled overtook its face, a steaming and wet rag in one paw whilst the other held a bucket of similarly steaming water.

It babbled at me, in a language I didn't know, and pushed me back onto the bed. It placed the rag onto my body and began to clean, wiping away a layer of sweat while continuing to talk. The language sounded Asian in origin, though it seemed moreso a combination of languages from my original world as opposed to one in general.

This- this was a Pandaren. How did a Pandaren find me?

It - _He_ \- poked at his chest with his thumb.

"Chen," he rumbled. Then, he poked me in my chest, just an inch or so off from my bandages, his head cocked to the side.

I hadn't realized my throat was so dry, but it was only polite to answer him.

"Tharama," I said in turn, holding out a hand. "Tharama Windrunner."

He clapped his hand against his belly and laughed, grabbing my proffered with excitement. "Chen Stormstout!"

* * *

 **A/N: Finally! Done with the Quel'thalas portion of the story, which was essentially the beginning of where I wanted this to go, and onto the part that I'd been thinking of for a while.**

 **Yes, you don't have to tell me. The events that led to Tharama leaving the Spire were very,** _ **very**_ **much out of character to what you might expect from my writing. I would like to reiterate something I stated earlier in this story. Warcraft is a very violent and cruel world, and Tharama was well aware of this, which is why he wanted to get strong in the first place. This? This was just to show how bad it could get.**

 **Who guessed what Corda was? Took me a bit to figure out a reason for her to even be there, but I think it turned out decently. I'd love to have a conversation on how I could adjust it, but I really don't like writing timey wimey jargon and hope to not have to edit it too much. I hope that the build up to Corda's death was good. I had to adjust it a bit, to compensate for the competency that I showed her to hold, but with the trolls that she was facing it didn't take too much work.**

 **Oh! And we now have a change to canon! Lirath lived through the Second War! While he won't be playing a major role at the moment, he will eventually have some important stuff to do. However, the fact that he's alive means that I've taken part in the changes to canon, and as I stated in this chapter, the Bronze Dragonflight is not a fan of that. Also, Kul'Krazhan is dead! He's not really important, but he is a rare spawn in Battle for Azeroth, so that's gone.**

 **But for anybody aware of Warcraft lore, Chen Stormstout was a monk from the Wandering Isle. That's right, Tharama is on Shen-zin Su, the turtle with an island on his back. What he'll do there, well… I'll be honest, I'm still figuring that out. I've got the endgame of this coming arc well in hand, but the middle is still coming along.**

 **I also took this chapter to experiment with PoV shifts. I've used them before in this story, but never this heavily. I think it turned out pretty well, but don't be shy in telling me how wrong I am. Just be honest.**

 **If you liked this chapter, please Favorite/Follow and don't forgot to Review!**


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